


Crimes from Days Past

by greenfairy13



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, Not overly explicit violence, Torture, Whump Jim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-08-01 23:39:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16294127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenfairy13/pseuds/greenfairy13
Summary: James Gordon is in a coma after being kidnappped. How he ended up in this predicament and how one of the very first major crimes we know Oswald committing is related, will be the story I want to tell.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I've fallen in love with Gotham and Oswald Cobblepot. My other work is not abandoned but for the moment, I can hardly think about anything that ain't Gotham related. I hope you enjoy my tribute to this fandom.

For as much Oswald Cobblepot insists on good manners, Harvey Bullock finally taking off his heat is something he could have gladly done without. As the elderly man hesitantly approaches the reinstated King of Gotham's throne, nervously licking his lips and running a hand through the greasy strands of his hair, Oswald desperately hopes he won't have to shake said hand. It's trembling slightly – death proof to the detective's escalating alcoholism. The bag's under his eyes are with only a slight exaggeration big enough to hide a newborn rat in them. His clothing is completely rumpled and covered in dirt and sweat. Oswald wouldn't recommend the dry clean but the fireplace behind him to rectify the situation.

Dutifully, he plasters a jovial smile on his face. The one that has a slightly manic quality to it and is deliberately unsettling. He snaps his fingers, spurring one of his goons into action. Before Harvey's outstretched hand reaches the kingpin, a glass of fine brandy is shoved into it. Oswald exhales somewhat relieved through his nose.

Now that he's got the chance, he scrutinizes the detective more thoroughly. Bullock hasn't showered for probably three days and hasn't slept as much as long. He came alone, which means he isn't here to arrest Oswald. A task that would at this point only be accomplishable with an army anyway. The King has only regained his title through tears, pain and blood and has no intention of giving any of his power up any time soon – not while he's still alive and kicking. Zsasz lurks like an unspoken threat in the background, ready to strike at so much as a twitch in Oswald's jaw.

A favour it is then. And judged by Bullock's exceptionally polite behaviour, a pretty big one. For once the detective isn't shouting threats or showing other signs of disrespect. “Mr Cobblepot.” He clears his horse voice awkwardly and Oswald leans back in his throne, somewhat nonplussed. _Mr Cobblepott_. Harvey must want him to establish world peace and save a bunch of puppies from a burning bus while he's at it.

“Detective Bullock,” he answers, smile growing wider. He's stirring his tea, seemingly absent minded. The kingpin is fletching his teeth gleefully and gesturing for the other man to sit down. “It's always a displeasure to host one of Gotham's fine crime fighters in my humble home. So, how can a dutiful citizen as myself be of service today?”

The detective picks up his drink. Gulping it down in one go, he tries hiding a little snort to no avail. Oddly, Bullock acting like Bullock is strangely soothing. Oswald watches him expectantly while contemplating if beating him to death with his umbrella or shooting him with his new automatic that had been hand crafted after his design in Europe would be more satisfying. He'd really like to try the weapon out and the detective that had almost had him arrested when being already at his lowest, would make a nice guinea pig.

Bullock clears his throat again. “Can I get another one, _please_?” He asks with a strained voice, waving the empty glass for emphasis. Oswald nods towards his goon and Harvey gets his refill before he can place the glass back on the polished surface that is Cobblepot's conference table. The second drink vanishes then as quickly his predecessor. Rolling his eyes at the man's drinking habits, Oswald gestures for the decanter being set next to the detective.

Folding his arms over his stomach the gangster leans slightly forward. “As much as I enjoy seeing my guests savouring my excellent brandy, I take it this is not a social call to congratulate on me retrieving my property or my status?”

Harvey draws his bloodshot eyes away from his drink and towards Oswald. His patience is running thin. It takes all the schemer's willpower not to twitch his lips in annoyance. The man at his table is drunk, unfocused and practically oozing desperation. This whole meeting is a waste of time and the idea with the automatic surfaces again. At least that would bring a little fun.

“So you and Zsasz made up, huh?” Bullock states at last, looking at the bald headed man with unsteady eyes.

“Obviously,” Oswald tight lipped replies. Mentally, his eyes are already rolling out of his head and skittering across the floor.

“I'm not here as a detective,” Harvey admits reluctantly.

“I figured as much.” Oswald's stare is getting more intent and the white of his skin intensifies. The blue in his eyes is now practically turning the shade of glaciers. His features hold no expression. Not a single muscle in his face twitches, making him the more threatening. Harvey sometimes thinks Cobblepot looks less than a human being but more like a marble statue. He once read that in ancient times the stone had been painted and decorated with jewels for eyes and even shrouded in clothing. Oswald looks about as amenable as the statues from his imagination.

“It's about Jim,” he fills in at last.

Oswald feels the muscles between his shoulder blades tighten. He's still slightly leant towards Harvey, breathing in the unpleasant scent of the overworked and underpaid man. His fingers tighten imperceptibly against the edge of his table. It's not like he has to be afraid of his knuckles turning white. But still – he's composed again before the detective notices.

“You know he's been kidnapped a week ago?” He doesn't even nod. Of course the gangster knows, all of Gotham knows. Oswald's stomach tightens uncomfortably. Jim has been in a coma since then so there really shouldn't be any hints pointing towards the mobster. He's made sure of that. Quite thoroughly. And according to his men looming around the hospital, detective Gordon isn't about to wake up any time soon. Unless of course they'd been sloppy. In that case the former mayor knows exactly when and on whom to test his new weaponry. Another possibility for the detective's presence dawns in his mind. One that is too dreadful to articulate in his head. Even if death follows his wake, the kingpin isn't above sentimentality. And he and Jim share more than only a bit history.

 “And of course you thought about me in that connection? I'm rather flattered,” he retorts with saccharine sweetness, swallowing down the bitter taste of dread. Bullock can't be here to tell him Jim has died. He'd know already. And the messenger would be fighting with a severe head trauma at this point.

Bullock just scoffs with disdain. “Na, for once I don't. Sure, you have enough reason to have one or two or maybe even 300 grudges against Jim. And I'd neither put kidnapping nor torture past you but this gorefest?” The detective shakes his head. “You'd have had enough mercy to put a bullet between his eyes rather than...” He's making a helpless gesture, unable to put into words what really happened. For someone used to the sadism that is Gotham's underworld, it's kinda unique.

 

“Do you have any idea who the culprit was?” Bullock blurts out, leaning uncomfortably close into Oswald's personal space. They are practically nose to nose. One breathing in a cool, gingery smell, the other a foul, sour one. The crime fighter`s hands are twitching, as if he wants to catch the lapels of the gangster's suit and shake him until the information falls magically down on the floor. Not this time. The hands are being decently placed back around the glass. “There is literally nothing. No hints, no traces, no tracks. Just dead ends.” The elderly man is on the verge of tears.

 “You should ask detective Gordon this question when he wakes up,” Oswald offers with a slight shrug, feigning indifference as ever.

 “If,” Harvey corrects while trying to rise unsteadily to his feet and dropping further into his seat instead. “If I find out who it was, I'd like to borrow Zsasz,” he slurs. Oswald only smiles politely in return. Harvey couldn't afford Zsasz' services if he'd sell everything he's got including his soul. He appreciates this train of thought coming from a crime fighter nonetheless.

 Awkwardly, Oswald pats him on the back while personally pouring him his next drink. “I know you and Jim aren't on the best of terms or friends but if you have any information or suspicions. I'm not here as a police man, I'm here as a friend.” He's babbling and he knows Oswald can tell. He also knows the criminal won't help him in the slightest.

 It's pitiful seeing Harvey Bullock act like that. A real shame. Putting someone like that out of his misery would be an act of mercy. Yet, Oswald Cobblepot isn't a man of mercy. Getting too emotional only leads to doing mistakes. The criminal has learnt that the hard way. That's why he remains silent, even if he has information. Proof, he doesn't. Any kind of proof has been meticulously dissolved in acid. There's nothing to be found. The information detective Bullock so desperately seeks is tucked away safely in his head. Besides, there's no need sharing it and corrupting detective Gordon's reputation publicly, should he never wake up again. It's enough that Oswald knows for a certain at least one person in this godforsaken city beside his mother loved him deeply enough to die.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zsasz is getting curious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing this for one purpose: getting over my obsession with that show. Also, I apologise for writing rather short chapters. I simply don't have enough time :/. If you should enjoy it, I'd be happy to receive a comment :).

When Harvey leaves, Victor decides it's safe to stop lingering menacingly on the windowsill. He gets up, pours a drink and makes himself comfortable. He earns an irritated frown by his boss, as he kicks back his seat and places his feet on the surface of the King's sumptuous table.

 

“Your services just _barely_ outweigh your distinct lack of manners, Victor,” Oswald admonishes. The hit man's face remains stoic. He knows as well as his boss that his skills are an excuse for far worse behaviour. The Kingpin falls silent then yet doesn't leave the room. He remains seated, a glass in his hands solely for something to hold on to, watching the flames in his fireplace.

 

“Do you want me to finish him off? It should be easy while he's put out.”

 

The voice cutting through the silence startles Oswald. Ripped from his musings, he needs some time to catch up. An occurrence that only very rarely happens.

 

“What?” His voice is a bit too high, too piercing. Edward was probably right when telling him his emotions were his greatest weakness, the crime boss muses. “No, Victor. I don't want you to finish anyone off right now. I want you watch me and my home. After all, that's what I'm paying you for, isn't it?” He keeps his tone light and cheerful despite the rage that always boils right under his surface. And today he feels especially itchy, like a vulcano about to burst. “And take your feet off the table,” he irritatedly ads as an afterthought.

 

Of course Victor is unfazed. “It would be easy to kill Gordon now,” he insists. “We should tie up this loose end as long as we still got the opportunity. Once he wakes up, he'll talk and tell Bullock won't be hesitant to put you into Blackgate.”

 

Cobblepot tenses, then simply snorts. “He can try,” he states haughtily while getting up and reaching for his cane. His back is already turned towards his pale bodyguard. “And what for should Harvey arrest me anyway? I am a victim too. I have been held hostage there along with Jim. That's really no reason to go to Blackgate,” he murmurs more to soothe himself than Victor.

 

“But obstruction of justice is,” Victor points out wisely. “And Bullock would use any excuse to send you behind bars.”

 

Oswald stops in his tracks. Up to now he had had every intention to stay completely calm and not to let his emotions overpower him like they used to in the past. He keeps his murderous tendencies in check, doesn't yell at his staff and to his outmost credit, he didn't beat the shit out of Harvey for daring to imply that James Gordon might never awake from his coma again. But Victor is taking things too far. He is the boss, it's only and exclusively him who decides who lives and who dies and he has decided that James Gordon _must_ live. Taking a deep breath, he straightens his suit. Feeling the luxurious fabric under his fingers usually calms him somewhat, makes him feel powerful – but not today. Oswald is agitated.

 

His orders had been perfectly clear concerning detective Gordon. At least two man have to watch over him in the hospital at every time of the day. They are instructed to report to him immediately if his status changes only in the slightest. They have to threat the doctors into doing their best and even into performing miracles by reminding them every moment that the King of Gotham wants James Gordon alive and well. Failures won't be tolerated and will have terrible consequences.

 

And now Victor suggests he should kill him? Of course the hitman can't possibly know what he and James had been through when they both had been kidnapped and being held captive for the three longest day of Oswald's life. Of course he doesn't know what Jim did in that sickening warehouse to save him. He went to such great lengths in there to get him out, he is pretty certain if - no when - James wakes up again, he'll never be finished doing favours for the GCPD. But that doesn't matter right now. What matters, is for James to wake up again.

 

Besides, Oswald is the boss. He doesn't have to explain himself in front of his _staff_. His first impulse is to leash out, to grab his cane and hit Zsasz until his marble skin is littered with blood and bruises. He fantasizes about Zsasz rolling helplessly on the ground, covering his face to no avail while beating him to mush. He wouldn't stop until each and every of his bone is turned to dust and the corners of his lips turn up into a sly smile at the thought. His fingers are already twitching in pleasant anticipation as he tightens his grip around the handle.

 

Yet, he restrains himself. He will have to be a better, more patient man for James. He wouldn't approve of him leashing out like he wants to and throwing a tantrum at any opportunity. James likes him for being cunning, for his genius level intelligence, for his devotion to Gotham, to he city they'd both give their life for. Those three days in the warehouse had proven that. Oswald has to honour that revelations. For Jim, Oswald will have to learn to control his sociopathic tendencies.

 

“James Gordon has saved my life in that warehouse, Victor,” he admits at last with forced politeness. The smile puffing out his cheeks strains his facial muscles to the point of pain. “He will be kept safe at any cost. That is an order,” he hisses.

 

“Yes, but what happened in that warehouse?” Zsasz dares asking and Oswald snaps. He spins on his heel faster than a man with a crippled leg should be able to and jabs his finger forcefully into the killer's chest. Cobblepot's eyes bore threateningly into his servant. The rage on his face is intimidating, terrifying even and Victor has enough sense to back down. Oswald would probably have no chance against him in a fight but Victor knows better than to underestimate an enraged Penguin.

 

“What happened there,you ask? I have been _kidnapped_ , Victor,” the fragile looking man hisses with steel in his eyes. “You failed me, Victor. You failed to fulfil your duties regarding me. I have been held in a small, cold cell for three days without food and too little water while listening to detective Gordon being tortured over and over again. I have been listening to this man screaming for three days straight while being rendered useless. I listened to him until his voice was gone, Victor.”

 

The assassin nods but doesn't understand at all. To him, putting Jim finally out of his misery would be an act of mercy. Hell, he didn't propose _more_ torture after all, just a clean ending to this already messy story that might at worst endanger Cobblepot's empire again. He understands perfectly that the Penguin has teamed up with the detective again, given the circumstances. But this overly protective behaviour of the Crime Lord towards a member of the police force alarms him. Frankly, it's reminiscent of the Nygma fiasco just more _controlled_. Zsasz isn't sure if the Penguin controlling himself so meticulously, is a good thing or not.

 

And there's also the fact, that his boss usually loves to gloat. So far, he hasn't mentioned with a single word how he had been able to escape completely unharmed while James Gordon is as good as dead. The Penguin had been gone for three days. After his return he hadn't explained anything. He had simply gathered a handful of men and led them to the warehouse were he had been held hostage. His men had been forbidden to kill the captors while Oswald single handedly ripped them to pieces and clubbed them to death until his clothes had been soaked in blood.

 

So yes, Zsasz _was_ in fact intimated by the Penguin. The worst thing had been Cobblepot's calmness while killing those guys. He had not once raised his voice, just hit them with the determination of a possessed man.

 

Then they had found the unfortunate detective. Still breathing. He had seen Oswald Cobblepot turning white. All the colour had drained from the gangster's face in that moment. Zsasz had noticed, despite the amount of blood coating his face. He just stood there, still as a statue, bent over this lifeless body. Oswald's eyes had then turned black, drained from any emotion. In that moment the assassin had respected and feared the Penguin even more than Don Falcone. There had been something utterly terrifying in this thin, spider like creature, forcing out respect from anyone unlucky enough to witness it.

 

After taking Jim to the hospital they had burnt the place to the ground and dissolved the bodies of the captors in acid. Victor is usually not the curious type of person but right now, he really, really wants to know what exactly happened to the bird and the detective.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for some Oswald and Jim interaction, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so very happy about each and every comment. I'm terrified I'll disappoint you. I hope I won't...

Oswald's irritable mood doesn't get better. Despite taking a nice, hot bath to soothe the ever present aching in his leg and putting on a decadent cologne, he still feels itchy. And quite frankly, he's also scared. As much as he wants James to get well again and to wake up, he also dreads the moment. Harvey will have enough ammunition to put him behind bars for the rest of his life, should Jim tell him the reason why he and the detective had been kidnapped. Taking up Zsasz on his offer would probably be the for the best, he muses.

The sentiment is instantaneously accompanied with guilt and all of a sudden, Oswald desperately needs a drink to drown the shame. Jim loves him. Knowing that another person feels so deeply for him, is enough to give him the strength to pull through the day and the next weeks. Maybe Jim won't tell, maybe Jim won't even remember. He takes another sip of champagne in hopes of calming his fluttering nerves.

Tonight, not an insecure, emotional mess is needed, but the Penguin. He shoves the unpleasant thoughts aside for the moment and pulls his bathrobe tighter around his still thin frame. With a sigh he notes that he recently started gaining weight and wonders, if Jim would mind the slight padding around his waist. He snorts at his own thoughts and pulls at the strings of his jet black hair while studying his features in the mirror. For sure he doesn't look too alluring. Not with these dark circles under his eyes, chapped lips and that overall exhausted expression. The last days got to him.

“Lydia!” he screeches, while applying some lotion around his eyes. He could have used the bell to alert his hairdresser, but he needs to let off some steam. So he shouts out again for his assistant despite already hearing her quick steps coming down the hallway.

“I'm here, sir.” The slightly overweight, young hairdresser has finally made it to the bathroom. She watches her boss nervously while chewing on her fingernail. Oswald had hired her because she could do wonders with his hair in record time. Lydia always had a perfect understanding of his ever changing temper and could almost magically transform mood into style. Unfortunately, she neither takes interest in her own hair or style. It's a pity, the kingpin thinks. His employee for sure has a pretty face.

“What took you so long,” he snaps as he drops down in his 19th century barber chair. The luxurious furniture, crafted from porcelain and brass is, next to his tub, the main attraction of his bathroom. Oswald has left it in it's original state, which means the headrest is made of a solid material, lacking a comfortable padding. With a sigh he leans back and really, really regrets his predilection for antiques instantaneously. His neck and the back of his head meet a cold, hard surface and all the pent up emotion inside him surfaces. The last days hit him like a tsunami a straw hut. All of a sudden, his heart starts racing, his palms are sweaty and he's got trouble breathing. A panic attack renders you completely motionless. Oswald can hear the blood pulsing in his ears and the beating of his heart with crystal clarity and despite gripping the armrest so tightly his knuckles turn white, he can't do anything about his mind pulling him in and spiraling him back in time.

One week earlier....

Oswald wakes with a gasp in a moldy, dingy cell with his head leaning against cold metal bars. His eyes fly open but even before they do so, he knows exactly where he is. If you are even half consciously aware that you are imprisoned again, you have definitely spent too much time under too dire circumstances. Living an honest life does certainly do have some appeal on such days. Honest people don't ever wake up in prison cells.

But on the other hand, how many honest people do you know exclusively wearing tailor made suits and jewels on every finger of their hand? And how many honest people end up in a cell wearing a fur coat? Yes, those predicaments get to Oswald, but he still wouldn't trade his beautiful things for an honest life. And he certainly wouldn't want to miss the rush of adrenaline rushing through his veins. The kind of adrenaline that renders the King of Gotham wide awake despite his throbbing headache.

He sits bolt upright at once and jerks back, which elicits a small whimper as his head connects forcefully with the metal behind him again. 

“Whoa, easy,” a soothing voice murmurs from behind and a strong hand grips his shoulder through the bars.

Oswald whips around only to stare into the concerned eyes of the infamous detective James Gordon. He purses his lips then and musters up his most gloomy stare. “For what murder I didn't commit did you arrest me this time?” he snarls and immediately recognizes his mistake. The cells at the GCPD are not that moldy or spartan. Not so wide awake after all, then.

Jim is being held in the adjoining cell. Instead of being separated by a wall, the two men are separated by bars. It's reminiscent of the situation he found himself in with Nygma. Yet, the square cells are bigger than back then. Apart from the bars which grant some company, they are surrounded by walls, which makes it impossible to determine where they are. Each cell is equipped with a small steel door, impossible to open from the inside for the lack of a handle. A bottle of water is sitting on the concrete floor, next to a bucket. No toilets then, just great. And no privacy while peeing, greater. 

The grip around his arm tightens, grounds him in the process, but it's almost painful, too painful and the crime boss gasps. At that, Jim releases him. “Are you alright?” the detective wants to know and Oswald is outright stunned by the stupidity of the question.

Only hours ago, he had been dining in one of Gotham's finest restaurants, dressed in his newest frock, savoring a Petrus and enjoying to be back on top of the game and probably being reunited with Martin soon, due to his again strengthened powers and now he's in a fucking cell. Oswald is absolutely not alright. He's fuckin' livid and feeling downright murderous.

“Do I look alright?” he forces out through gritted teeth and musters up an especially pissy expression for the idiot detective. He then turns around and takes Gordon in. His cheap suit is rumpled (but when is this hideous concoction of elastane, a dash of cotton and things Oswald would never mix into a suit not rumpled?) There are a few blood splatters on his collar, his lip is split and his right eye is swollen and developing a nasty shade of violet. Jim cocks his head patiently and his fingers reach out again. There's a question lingering on the tip of his tongue but Oswald interrupts him.

“Compared to you, I'm obviously peachy. You look like shit, Jim,” he comments dryly.

Gordon remains unfazed by his temper. Getting up, he stretches his arms and legs. “Thanks,” the detective retorts once he has finished his little impromptu aerobic. “And you look impeccable, as always,” he deadpans. The comment renders the kingpin silent. This has to be the first time Jim tells him something remotely friendly. The situations must be downright terrifying then, even for Gotham's standards.

“So tell me Oswald, that collar? Is it a weird fashion statement?” Jim carries on, taking advantage of his silence. “Cause it sure as hell doesn't compliment the rest of your outfit.” He states while gesturing around with his hand and rubbing his temples with his knuckles. Obviously, the detective is suffering from a splitting headache too. 

“James Gordon, I'm wearing a pinned collar. Not that I expect you to know what that is, considering the fact you buy your shirts at Walmart.” Oswald snaps back, earning himself a pitying glance from the police man. So his rising fear is obviously showing. Oswald grits his teeth. He doesn't want to appear feeble.

The detective only rolls his eyes. “I'll let you know, I'm buying them every six months online. Pack of ten for thirty bucks. And I know what a pinned collar is. But that thing around your neck, is not one of these.” To give him some credit, he doesn't sound smug – just composed.

“What are you talking about, Gordon?” the Penguin growls and massages his temples. His vision shifts from blurry to clear, making him slightly nauseous. Somebody must have spiked his Petrus. It's a crime doing something like this to one of the world's finest wines.

“Touch your goddamn neck, Cobblepot!” Jim finally barks out, losing his patience. He walks swiftly over to the bars separating them and slams his hand against the metal. “I mean that heavy looking, hideous, gigantic thing!”Jim crouches down and shakes the other man slightly by his shoulder. 

And finally Oswald's eyes widen in understanding. Gingerly, he presses two fingers against his neck. “Wh..What's that?” he stammers out, eyes going wide. Jim pulls him closer. They are almost nose to nose and the gangster can breathe his cellmate in. There's a hinge of sweet dampness from the blood covering his shirt and a musky hint of sweat. Now, with his face close, he can see how ashen and worn down he looks. Oswald wonders when the last time was, Jim got a solid eight hours of sleep. 

“Fuckin' Christ,” he curses under his breath while gingerly inspecting whatever is decorating Oswald's neck. “Seems like the psycho of the week attached a bomb to your neck,” Jim finally declares matter of factly. Judged by the detective's voice one would think he doesn't care, but his fingers are trembling when he pulls them back and his pupils have slightly widened. Jim swallows and heaves a deep sigh. “We'll get outta here, we've had worse,” he finally decides, mustering up a weak, yet encouraging smile. 

Oswald is momentarily speechless. And too nonplussed to answer. James Gordon being friendly can only mean one thing: they are both going to die. 

When he finally speaks, it comes out less sharply than intended. “How would you know?” A frankly ridiculous question considering Jim is dealing with heavy weaponry and bombs on a daily basis. 

“I had some basic bomb squad training,” Jim replies simply. He sits back down on the floor, back to back with Oswald. The warmth emanating from the other body is slightly soothing – but not enough to push back the rising panic that follows that revelation. 

“Disarm it, then!” Oswald commands, fighting down the fear creeping up his veins and slamming both his hands against the bars now. All of a sudden he's freezing despite all the mink he's being wrapped in. 

“Oswald,” Jim says turning around so he can look the other man in the eye. “If I'd do that, if I make only one tiny mistake, we're both done. And I'm really no expert....” His voice trails off, gets insecure. Reaching through the bars, the detective squeezes Oswald's hand but he snatches it away. “You just want me to die already,” he accuses, voice high and shrill and bordering on the edge of hysteria. 

“I really don't,” Jim reassures, reaching again for Oswald. This time again for the shoulder. The kingpin just snorts. He learned the hard way that he's only a tool for the detective. Jim probably doesn't even regard him as an human being. If Jim starts caring now, he has no idea how to get out and needs him on his side. Well, considering they're in this together he can count him in anyway. 

“But that's exactly what you're here for, James Gordon!” 

Both men freeze at once. Exchanging glances, both their eyes check the ceiling, watching for a hidden speaker. Oswald cranes his neck until he's found a irregularity in the wall, a small black spot one could mistake for dirt given how high up it is. “There,” he mouths. Jim's hand drops from Cobblepot's body as he gets up and moves towards the direction he has indicated.

“Who are you?” he asks looking up at the ceiling while mustering up his most intimidating GCPD voice. If he's confused or scared, he doesn't let it on. 

“My name is William Robert Morgan, citizen of Gotham,” the voice, William, answers calmly. “And I brought you, detective James Gordon, here so you can rectify a big mistake. I want you to kill Oswald Cobblepot.” 

There's silence after this declaration. Jim glances over at Oswald, face expressionless, very much like all those years ago at the docks. Mutely, he shakes his head. The Penguin should feel reassured, yet doesn't. Not in the slightest. 

“Why would I do that?” Gordon finally challenges, eyebrows arched and voice steady.

“Because you owe me!” William answers over the speaker and now there's more than just a hint of barely restrained rage to his tone. “You were supposed to kill that piece of shit years ago and you didn't! And now you'll take this life and set things right again.”

“No!” Jim's voice is determined, clear. 

“Look into your pockets, James Gordon,” William replies. His voice is calm again, almost bored. “There's a remote control that sets off the bomb around this piece of shit's head. Once you push it, you'll be free to go. And if you don't, well....Let's see, won't we?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks up exactly where the last one ended. Jim and Oswald are still being held captive and have a little chat.

There's a clicking sound reverberating through their cells that indicates the speaker has been turned off. Oswald lets out a shaky breath into the relative safety of the sudden silence while his mind starts racing. The first thing that floods him are emotions. Because what else would it be? Ed would double over in laughter if he could see him right now. Once again being caged like a fuckin bird. Rage and fear are roughly even and Oswald tries desperately to calm his racing heart down and to evaluate the situation.

So there's Jim. His _not_ friend who has more than just a slight grudge against him, who doesn't hesitate to put him into jail whenever the opportunity arises and at best regards him as a sometimes useful tool. The very same Jim who, if it's true, can walk out of here unharmed if he decides to blow his head right off. The kingpin is secretly pretty certain Jim has already fantasized about a similar scenario multiple times and isn't very much opposed to the idea of putting him into the ground already.

On top of everything, he hasn't got the slightest idea _why_ he's being held captive. William Robert Morgan – Oswald has never heard that name before. Sure, he has wronged some people here and there and cut some throats now and then, but not _that_ many, that he couldn't remember the ones having the resources to capture him _and_ James Gordon. Maybe it's someone related to the Galavans he muses.

Oswald slides back down to the floor, uncertain how to talk himself out of this. He decides to hold on to the rage for the moment. At least it keeps the panic at bay that creeps very steadily into his veins. He ponders flattering Jim or reminding him how many favors he actually owes him but doubts the trick would work on the stubborn detective. There's nothing Jim will owe him once he's dead. So the gangster settles on sarcasm.

“Must be Christmas for you,” he scoffs. “You can finally free Gotham from me.” The detective doesn't reply which is quite frankly annoying.

The Penguin's eyes dart over to the man in the rumpled suit who's still standing in the middle of the room, eyes plastered to the ceiling. There's an odd expression flickering over Jim's face, one the mob boss can't quite put his finger on. He doesn't look determined, or angry, or combat ready, or petulant, or anything like James Gordon. He looks downright _worried_ and uncertain. It's decidedly not a flattering look on him. Well, on the plus side, he doesn't look like pushing the button given to him either.

Oswald clears his throat to snap James out of whatever he's in. When the detective doesn't budge, he does it again, just louder. Ever so slowly, he finally moves to look at him with his one good eye. The kingpin can't help smirking at his sight. They make quite a team: the half blind detective and the limping criminal.

Cobblepot pulls himself upright with some help from the bars. It takes a moment before he's found his balance again. He jumps awkwardly around on his good leg as he steadies himself against the metal. God, Oswald hates his traitorous body and the worsening pain in his knee and ankle. He wonders how long it will still take before he's ready for a wheelchair. Well, if he dies in this moldy cell, his brain helpfully supplies, he won't have to find out.

“So, who's that _noble_ citizen of Gotham, William Robert Morgan, then?” He asks the detective sardonically.

Jim gulps and for a second the police man looks downright ashamed before he's closing off again. Gordon stares at him with his “I drank an entire bottle of vinegar” face again and oddly, it's actually quite soothing.

“William Robert Morgan,” he starts clearing his throat, “is the father of Owen Morgan. Does that name ring any bells?”

“No,” Owald deadpans. “Should it?”

“Well,” James heaves a weary sigh, “William believes you murdered his son.”

If Gordon believes his dramatic pause impresses the mobster, he's certainly mistaken. Instead, Oswald just rolls his eyes and bites his tongue before he accidentally blurts out that he has actually murdered quite a lot of people. Directly and indirectly. “Please, continue James,” he simply says.

“Owen was a student of the Metropolis university back in 2014. One day, he and his friend Gregory Porter where on their way back to Gotham when both boys just disappeared. About six months ago, we found their bodies by chance in a swamp.”

Jim's eyebrows are drawn together in a mixture of concentration and pain. He fidgets with his collar and sways a bit before deciding to sit back down and pressing his hand against his swollen eye.

“The bodies were heavily decomposed but the coroner thinks the cause of death was a cut throat,” Jim continues. “Those two boys....,” he swallows. “When it becaame quite clear that they just haven't taken off for some heavy partying, me and Harvey investigated. Was one of our earliest cases,” he adds.

The detective looks up and stares Oswald square in the eye. Yet, the criminal is still at a loss. It's not like he's got any business with college kids. “James,” he declares dryly, “you do are aware of the fact that I am in organized crime and not some psycho serial killer who runs after people waving around a knife while wearing a white mask?”

“We had a witness,” James retorts, unfazed. “He saw the two victims picking up a hitchhiker shortly before they disappeared. She described the hitchhiker as a young man, very slim, pale, jet black hair, he had a limp.” Gordon cites the police report. “Does the hitchhiker remind you of someone you know, Oswald?”

The mobster deserves an Oscar. He really does. As the memory of those two college kids finally, thankfully, surfaces, not a single muscle twitches in the kingpin's face. He remains completely stoic. Oh yes he remembers those college kids _now_. Those insolent, disrespectful little brats. Those obnoxious little creatures. They _mocked_ him. Made fun of him when he was already down. _Did anyone ever tell you, you walk like a penguin?_ He can still hear their derisive voices in his mind. Admitted, he might have lost his mind a tiny bit back then. But that happened after he'd almost been killed. He had had no place to go, no money, no protection....Certainly ,Oswald can't be blamed for losing his temper under such circumstances?

“It happened shortly after we staged your death at the docks,” James continues looking intently at the criminal. “The parents came to the precinct almost every day for a while. Asked about our progress. Not that there was any.” He snorts. “It's Gotham, after all. And we had no bodies or other evidence.” The detective's voice breaks off. “When you returned from the dead, Oswald and he saw your picture in the paper, William was convinced you had murdered his boy.”

Oswald is silent for a long moment as he processes what Jim has told him. He hasn't thought about these two victims of his for a very long time. And he certainly had never felt much remorse for them. But he does understand their parents. If anything, he understands their thirst for revenge. The urge to rip the entire world apart to get your payback. And if the he was in the position of this man, if someone would ever hurt Martin, there would be nothing in heaven or hell to stop him from burning everything down to get his vengeance. He swallows heavily as a very unpleasant feeling settles deep down in his gut.

“And what do _you_ believe, James Gordon?” Oswald whispers fearfully holding his breath.

“I....” Jim starts pacing the small room while scooting his hands through his hair. “I,” he hesitantly starts again. “There was no evidence,” he finally blurts out as he looks at everything except for Oswald.

“Jim?” The gangster's voice is small. But he needs to know. Needs to know Jim doubts him being guilty. It's his only chance. William, their kidnapper, won't be convinced otherwise. Not when he's finally found his son's murderer. “Jim, please,” he presses again, desperate to get an answer.

Finally, the detective shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “No,” he whispers. “No, I don't think it was you. Not this time.” Jame's voice is quiet. He's stopped pacing and stands in the middle of the room again, waiting for their captors to make their next move.

He rubs his swollen face wearily before walking over to the other man. “I know exactly how much I owe you, Oswald.” His expression is earnest, open. "And I know I wronged you and I will probably wrong you again,” he adds honestly. “But I won't let you pay for a crime you haven't committed. Not with your life, alright?”

A shaky breath escapes Oswald's lips and he nods tersely. “I very much hope so, _old friend_. But what now?" 

"I didn't get this swollen eye because I came quietly," James replies with a strangled laugh and turns towards the door. "I guess we're getting a visit," James declares and grits his teeth. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next chapter will be less pleasant. Please let me know, if you liked this. Thank you all for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are still with Jim and Oswald.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your feedback has been amazing and means so much to me!! Thank you all! I'm terrified though I'll disappoint...

Jim straightens his shoulders and takes a deep breath. There’s a hint of fear in his bright eyes, gone almost instantly but Oswald knows him long enough to tell he just pulls up his protective walls. Well, there’s also the possibility that the emotion wasn’t really there in the first place and the gangster just saw his own panic reflected in the other man. 

 

The detective is about as affectionate as ice, hardly ever shows any emotion besides mistrust and spite. Maybe he isn’t afraid ever, maybe he just experiences slight discomfort, Oswald muses. Maybe he just prepares for putting up a show, for pretending to make an effort to save Oswald’s life. So when all is said and done, Jim can leave mostly unharmed and still remain Gotham’s hero, the only incorruptible cop. 

 

Each and every muscle in the cop’s body seems to vibrate from anticipation as he positions himself by the door. Jim is pressed to the wall next to it, prepared to strike at so much as the slightest noise. His nostrils flare and his fists clench almost painfully. 

 

And then there’s the noise of a door being opened and Jim strikes. Oswald has to admire the grace and the brute force his cellmate possesses. Well, he is even an equal challenge for Zsasz, isn’t he? Their captor doesn’t stand a chance against Jim’s assault. He’s being tackled to the floor within the blink of an eye and yelps in pain as the detective lands a particularly hard blow below his ribs. 

 

For one moment Oswald is absolutely certain that their time in confinement ends right now. Jim will beat William to a pulp, call the GCPD and by next morning, Gotham’s king will be back to holding court and beating disobedient goons into submission. 

 

He bites his tongue else he’d spur Jim on like a teenage cheerleader. It’s a pity the detective has no intention to play on the other side of the team. His physical abilities as well as his intellect would make him an excellent ally. 

 

This moment of relief is short-lived, though. When the man Oswald assumes to be William lies sputtering on the floor, another player enters the stage and makes short work of the unruly detective — quite spectacularly the kingpin has to admit. Their second kidnapper, a middle-aged man in a gray suit whose only unique features are a gold rimmed pair of glasses and his baldness, pulls a teaser from his pocket, turns it on and presses it against Gordon’s neck before Oswald can as much as squeak. The force of the shock sends the police man back to the ground where his head makes hard contact with the concrete. At the sickening sound, the kingpin lets out a horrified gasp. He isn’t sure if Jim is still breathing or not and what the possibility of him dying prematurely means. Also, if he’s being totally honest, being held captive is a lot less terrifying when having a confederate. 

 

In the meantime, man number two helps the one Jim showed vividly how much he likes his predicament up again. The man groans and straightens his clothes as he presses a tissue to his bleeding nose. His short hair screams military as well as his conservative yet cheap choice of clothing. 

 

Oswald has such an obsession with fabric, he can even tell from afar if he’s being presented high quality or not. That personal quirk evolved into new dimensions when his father taught him in great detail about his profession of being a tailor. 

 

The gangster squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to think about his parents. About his mother, who had died under similar circumstances or his father, who had been ripped from him way too soon. He can’t, not now. Not when he needs his wits and his silver tongue. 

 

“Is he dead?” Man number one asks, prodding Jim with the tip of his shoe. 

 

“Dunno. If you’d been careful, I wouldn’t have had to shock him,” the second guy grouses. “You should have known how much trouble Gordon is,” he carries on angrily. 

 

“Nobody told you to use a setting that would take a bear out!” the other one snaps back. Then, he stalks over and gives Jim a good slap across the face. “Wake up! You can get your beauty sleep later,” he orders, cackling hysterically. 

 

The detective remains out on the floor so captor number two tries his luck again. He adjusts the settings on the teaser and shocks him a second time. At that, the detectives eyes fly open and he jolts up. His eyes dart hazily across the room. He finds Oswald and looks at him in confusion, as if he’s trying to remember what happened and then snap up to the men looming over him. His footing is unsteady, and he stumbles back against the wall. Unable to support his body weight, Jim drops to his knees. Panting heavily, he remains in this position.

 

“You’re really useless, Henry,” the man with teaser then states while shaking his head compassionately. “Henry used to be in the military, detective Gordon,” the man elaborates while pulling the detective’s head up at his hair, so he’s forced to look him in the eye. “Before the death of his son he would have never made the mistake to face an enemy unguarded.” 

 

“What?” Jim mumbles, obviously still having a hard time following. 

 

“Right, take your time.” Sighing, he rubs a hand over his face and pushes Gordon into a sitting position. Snapping his fingers, he orders Henry to shackle Gordon’s hands behind his back.

 

“It will be much easier to deal with you if you can’t put a fight. I really have to admit, Gordon,” he says crouching down in front of the detective, “I admire that fire in you. If only you’d put it to good use, eh?” 

 

Jim tries tracking the other man’s movements, yet fails miserably. His head wobbles uselessly from side to side and suddenly his stomach convulses as he vomits soundly onto his tormentors shoes. 

 

“Gross, detective,” he chides. Getting up, he wipes his shoe against Jim’s trouser leg. “Do you know who I am?” 

 

“William,” Gordon chokes out. “You don’t…”

 

“I don’t what?” William snarls. “I don’t have to do this? I’ll go to prison for this? I’ll lose everything I have? What? What do you want to say, detective?” he rages, voice getting louder with each word, echoing intimidatingly through the cells. 

 

“Years ago  _ you  _ failed to do your duty and I lost my only child. Henry lost his only child, our marriages went down the drain and what for? You had been told to kill this man here!” he yells turning towards Oswald who fights each and every impulse to shrink down into himself. 

 

The face staring at him practically oozes insanity. Despite all this planning, despite the preparation the man must have put into finding him and Jim, his grip on reality is long since gone. He looks just like the inmates at Arkham. The ones that everyone with some sense of self-preservation had stayed away from. 

 

Oswald plasters his most disarming smile over his face and holds up his hands. The crime lord still looks younger than he is and oh so innocuous with his limp and his feeble appearance. His physique worked in his favor before, gave his enemies the false impression of superiority. He hopes against better knowledge it works on William too. 

 

“Sir,” he addresses him cautiously, like a startled animal. “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced yet. My name is Oswald Cobblepot. And detective Gordon told me you believe I had been the cause of your beloved son’s tragic death. Mr Morgan I won’t deny it, I haven’t always been such a fine citizen as you, but I assure you, your child’s blood is not on my hands.” 

 

The mobster swallows while trying to assess the impact of his words on his kidnapper. William listens intently, observes Oswald with mild curiosity. The second man is still engrossed with his bleeding nose and seemingly not paying much attention.

 

“I am convinced that this is all a tragic misunderstanding. But it’s clear you’re deeply grieving. I am convinced James Gordon won’t press charges. And neither will I.”

 

“ _ You  _ won’t press charges?  _ You _ ? I don’t care if you press charges or not. I don’t care if you live or die, you worthless, pitiful excuse of a gangster. This is not about you. You are just a symptom of everything that’s wrong with this city. It’s people like our detective here who allow you to roam around freely. When Falcone was still in charge, back when this city still knew order, a parvenu like you would have never become mayor or the ruler of the underworld. People like James Gordon, people with not an ounce of respect for the order, enabled  _ freaks _ like you to climb up the ladder.”

 

The words sting. They shouldn’t, coming from a nothing like William Robert Morgan. Who is this insignificant subject to talk to the King of Gotham like that? He should be quivering in fear of what the kingpin is capable of doing. Oh, he will suffer for his insolence, Oswald vows. He clawed his way from bitter poverty up to becoming one of the richest and most powerful men in the country. He bent the existing rules to his own will, shaped the city into something better, safer and still he’s being looked down upon? Morgan should be down on his knees, thanking him he can walk those streets at night. 

 

Oswald’s smile splits further in response, becoming slightly unsettling. He studies William’s features, files them away for later. The kingpin won’t forget. Given half a chance, Oswald will rip this man to pieces, and he swears to the ruler of hell, he’ll enjoy every second. But for now, he keeps his calm, stays polite, for his own sake. 

 

“Mr Morgan,” the gangster starts again but the fine citizen of Gotham turns his back on him. 

 

“You can talk as much as you like, pigeon, or penguin, or cockroach or whatever you want to call yourself. You mean nothing to me.” 

 

The Penguin’s jaw clenches, yet he stays silent. William had been listening to him, he knows that, had had the opportunity to consider his words. He just needs some more time to work out how to break through to him. Hopefully, James Gordon won’t say something imprudent and spark the man’s rage further on. As for the other man, the silent one in the corner, Henry, Oswald still can’t assess him properly. He’s uncomfortably silent. Which might be a sign for him silently doubting his actions — or worse, for just waiting to get this party going. 

 

James Gordon has in the meantime come back enough to his senses to focus on William. Oswald quickly looks over at him and gives him an apologetic shrug. He hopes Gordon understands him well enough to know he won’t give up talking the pair of them out of the situation. Jim only blinks in return but doesn't let anything on. 

 

“Gordon!” William starts cheerfully. “I’m happy you’re somewhat back with us. I bet you must be confused, right?” He chuckles. The detective nods slightly and Oswald breathes out a sigh of relief. James seems to play along for now. 

 

“You certainly wish to know why I am asking you to kill our dear former mayor when I could perfectly do that myself and get revenge for my son’s death?” William flops down next to the detective and smiles brightly at his prey. 

 

Jim scrutinizes the man beside him and nods dutifully. “No, I’m confused why nobody locked you up in a closed institution and your mute pal as well, yet,” the detective retorts dryly and Oswald groans. He should have seen that coming.  

 

William is unimpressed by the answer though or simply chooses to ignore it. “Of course you must wonder how I know about that you were supposed to execute Oswald Cobblepot and failed to do your duty?” 

 

“If I only gave a damn.” Is the growled response. “Will this take long? Else I’d rather smash my head again against the concrete,” Jim deadpans. 

 

“Just as long as it takes you see clear. And to answer the earlier question: your partner Harvey would desperately need a better friend than you. You’re a cause of constant sorrow for the poor man. After a few drinks, you’re practically the only thing he talks about and how your hero complex will him get killed one day. If you don’t show some respect, I’ll bring him here too, Gordon. He’s not the main culprit but has followed you and your delusions along long enough already. He’d need to be taught a lesson as well.” He gives James a mock friendly pat on the back and beams at the bound man. 

 

“So about this day at the docks: you threw over the old order back then in your quest to act right and did the wrong thing in the process. And I could really forgive you if you wouldn’t keep making the same mistake over and over again. You’re shaking at the very foundations of this beautiful city — constantly. You’re taking great men, even judges and politicians, to prison while enabling criminals like Cobblepot to rise. You’re a threat, Gordon. You letting Oswald live and countless others like him kills the children of people like me. People who don’t care about a bit corruption as long as they can sleep safely.”

 

Jim snorts. “Sleep safely? You're the delusional one, Morgan. Nobody can ever sleep safely in this city.”

 

Morgan’s eyes narrow accusingly. “I slept perfectly fine before you came along and made a mess of Gotham.”

 

“You can’t sleep safely in a city in which police walks around killing people at the command of a mobster,” Jim barks back. “There’s right and wrong, William. Letting an unarmed man live is right, putting corrupt politicians behind bars is right. I’m sorry for your loss, but I’m not responsible for his death. And neither is Oswald. I get it. You are angry, you want to blame someone. Let me do my job and I’ll find the culprit. But I can tell you already: he’s not in this cell.” 

 

The kingpin is taken aback by the conviction in Jim’s voice. He’s sitting up straight now despite the pain he must be in and the barf covering his trousers, talking with William as if they were at the precinct and not in a cell. Gordon doesn’t show any signs of doubt or insecurities. But then James has always been a man who’s absolutely certain of his actions. In his mind, the world is black and white. There might be gray but James only ever touches it for a brief moment before proceeding in his quest to defy all evil. And even if said quest has cost Oswald a great deal in the past, he’s glad to be on the receiving end of Jame’s hero complex once again. If James only had thought like that when he’d been locked up in Arkham, he thinks bitterly. 

 

“James Gordon, if I get that right, you want to tell me that this murderer’s life is worth saving?”

 

“Each life is worth saving, William. You talk about order, but you have no idea what order means. It means abiding to the law. If Oswald should be a murderer, we would have to prove it, we would take him to court and get him convicted. We’d send him to prison. The order you are talking about is no order. It’s the legitimation of corruption and despotism. 

 

If you are so convinced Oswald killed your son, give me proof, give me evidence, cause I don’t think for one second if Oswald is the man you believe him to be, he would be bothered to kill a college kid. And I’ll refuse to become your hangman. And I sure as hell won’t murder someone for your amusement and your twisted sense of justice.”

 

Jim turns his head to look at the gangster who can only gape at the detective. James Gordon doesn’t care about him, sent him to prison and allowed for him to be tortured but now he draws a line? Jim practically declared he would rather die than kill him. Of course Jim could still be putting up a show or just reassure himself but somehow the kingpin doubts the detective isn’t honest in his motives. 

 

“Well,” William declares nonplussed. “You have never been a father. And your former fiancée pushing out a corpse doesn't count, does it?” he adds cruelly before carrying on. 

 

“When my boy was only was only seven years old, we went ice skating. This winter back then had been particularly cold. I was convinced it was safe to go out onto the Gotham river. To put it short: I had been wrong. The freaking river wouldn't carry my boy's weight. One moment he was there, skating merrily, the next he had been swallowed by the river, by this city.”

 

Morgan swallows heavily, wills the tears pricking at his eyelids back. 

 

“That winter, I could still pull him back. Do you have any idea what I did, detective Gordon? I went out there, on the ice. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the wind ripping at my clothes. It was so cold, it hurt. Hurt so badly, I could hardly breathe. 

 

At least that’s what I thought at the moment. It was nothing compared to when I found the hole in the ice. I didn’t think. I just dived in deep. Deeper and deeper under the ice. And I found him. Found my son, my Owen. I pulled him back up, got him out of the darkness and the cold, pumped air into his lungs until life came back to his body. 

 

You have no idea how that feels, detective: Holding the only thing that remains of you in this world once you’re cold and dead in your hands and willing it to carry on, to keep breathing, keep your legacy going. 

 

My Owen was found in a swamp!” he roars at last. 

 

“He had been disposed like waste, along with used condoms and beer cans. I would have dived into that swamp too, wouldn’t even have cared. My boy is gone and all that remains is emptiness and pain. 

 

I need you to understand how that feels, Gordon. To dive through the cold and the darkness to save someone. If you can do the same for Cobblepot, well - I’ll be okay with that. If not, you’ll have learned your lesson.”

 

Morgan moves fast as lightning. Jumping up he grabs Jim’s legs and drags him out of the cell. The police man tries to fight back. He’s kicking, moving his upper body in an attempt to regain some control over the situation but the shock, the drugs and the earlier fight had been too much. Morgan pulls him after him as if the struggling man weighs nothing. 

 

A few moments later, Oswald can hear the splashing of water and Jim gasping for air. It’s obnoxiously loud in the stillness of the facility he’s being hold in. He hears it over and over again. The splash and the gasp. A splash, a gasp, nothing. A splash, a gasp, nothing. 

 

The pauses between the two sounds become longer and longer each time and then, after what could have been half an hour or five - Oswald is unable to tell - there’s just nothing. Just silence, except for the gangster’s ragged breathing. 

 

It takes forever but finally, there’s movement. Someone is walking down the hall and Oswald wants to cheer from relief. Jim is finally being dragged back in. He’s soaking wet. William must have pushed him under water over and over. 

 

The detective is shivering violently. His lips are a shade of deep purple, much like the mobster’s goatskin gloves and his face is bright red where it’s not black, blue and still swollen. Little pieces of ice cling to his hair and his dripping suit. 

 

Jim is being dropped unceremoniously to the floor where he curls up in himself in a fetal position. He groans when a kick to his abdomen violently propels him onto his back. 

 

“I’m afraid it will never be as cold in here as back on the day I pulled my Owen from the river.” William states apologetically. 

 

It’s then Oswald notes he can see his breath in the air. Wrapped in his mink coat and with all the adrenaline rushing through his veins, he hasn’t noticed yet how cold their cells are. Jim must have been freezing already before in his thin suit. 

 

Morgan crouches down so he’s nose to nose with the desperately shaking detective. “I’ll turn on the ventilation system, though. So you’ll gain a fraction of understanding what it means to pull someone from under the ice. And you will  _ think _ , detective. You will tell me if the pain, the shivering, the cold is worth saving the criminal. I’ll even turn the light off. You’ll be cold and dark, you’ll be wet and alone with your thoughts. Is Oswald Cobblepot’s life worth all this? He gets out here unharmed if the answer to this and my following questions will be yes. I promise. Unlike you, I’m a man of honor, detective Gordon. And as for you,” he adds turning towards Oswald. “Don’t even think about giving him your coat. It would be very unpleasant for our dear detective to receive any kind of help from you.” 

 

True to his words, the ventilation systems is being turned on then. A breeze of fresh air hits Oswald and he can’t do much else but pull up his coat collar. The brush of his fingertips at the bomb around his neck reminds him of how much danger he is in too. Oswald wants to say something but words fail him at the sight of Morgan's determination. It's not the right moment to argue, not when the other man is so full of rage he can't think straight. 

 

The lights are being turned off then and the door behind Jim closes. They are alone now and there’s suffocating silence again - except for Jim’s violently chattering teeth. Click, click, click, like the world's most sickening alarm. 

 

Oswald practically jumps from his barber chair. Lydia is long since done with his hair and makeup. The kingpin is shivering from head to toe and his hairdresser stares wide eyed at him but is too horrified to press out a single word. The crime lord can only fathom what he must look like. 

 

“Whiskey,” he rasps out. Obediently, Lydia hurries to the next room and loses no time in fulfilling his wish. Oswald then notes Victor looming in the background, face unreadable. 

 

“We are late for the meeting,” he informs his boss, hands dutifully crossed behind his back. 

 

“Who cares about those morons,” the kingpin snaps, voice quivering. “If I want them to wait, they wait. If I want them to jump, they have to ask how high. I'll arrive when I arrive and in the meantime, they can work on getting drunk. 

 

And for fucks sake!” he hollers at last. “Get that ugly barber chair out of my bathroom and attach a padding to the damn headrest!”

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! Please let me know what you think.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald is on his way to his meeting and confides in Victor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so grateful for the response I've been receiving so far! As work has put me into a loop, I hardly find the time to write anymore but your comments give me the motivation to carry on whenever I even have a minute. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter and won't be disappointed.

Victor looks curiously down at Oswald, but knows better than to comment on his boss when he’s already teetering on the edge. The mobster is still unsteady on his feet and for once, he’s grateful for the ache in his leg that keeps him somewhat grounded, gives him something to focus on except for an overpowering sense of dread. 

 

He then downs one of his top notch drinks without even appreciating it’s well balanced flavour or the smooth, silky feeling on the tip of his tongue. The liquor leaves him light headed as warmth spreads throughout his body, numbs his feelings until they’re bearable again. He breathes in deeply, reminds himself that he’s warm and safe and that it had been Jim who was suffering and shivering on the cold concrete of their cell. That it’s still Jim suffering at the hospital and nothing will get past to hurt him. Not with his entire army gathered around him. 

 

As Oswald’s trembling fingers clasp around the glass, he briefly wonders what it says about Gotham that half of the population drinks twice as much as any in the least bit rational physician would still find acceptable. In his line of business it’s even worse. But then you can only shed so much blood before you need something to numb your emotions and take off the edges. 

 

Until now, the kingpin had always been able to control his drinking habits though. But tonight, he’ll either move on auto pilot or not at all - and the latter isn’t an option. So Oswald drowns his brandy like it’s water, combines it with his pain medication and relies on Victor to drag him into the limousine. 

 

Usually, the kingpin would evade showing his weaknesses at all costs, but he assumes it’s safe enough to let his guard down in front of Victor. The man had more often been loyal and trustworthy than not. He had only turned his back on him when thinking he had murdered his adopted son. Oswald values the hitman’s attachment to the kid and had even respected his decision to turn his back on him for the alleged murder. Therefore, the bald headed man is the closest thing to a friend the crime lord has.

 

Lips pressed into a thin line, Victor maneuvers his employer into the car. The hitman is obviously displeased but doesn’t dare pressing the topic yet. Only when Oswald’s gaze has steadied again, he dares to speak. “Do you think it’s wise to face the syndicate in your current state?” 

 

Oswald only smiles sweetly in return but the glare in his eye shushes the assassin effectively. He might be a bit loopy, but he knows exactly what he’s doing and how sober he must be to push through the meeting. “Don’t worry about me, Victor. I will be a perfectly amenable host once we’ve arrived. Consider my previous behaviour a slight lapse I allowed myself in the safety of my home.” 

 

“It’s not you I’m worried about, but your unfortunate guests.” Victor quips drily. “We’ll have a lot to explain if you start stabbing half of Gotham’s underworld. But then the detective will probably approve.” His tone is outright deprecating and Oswald scowls in return. 

 

“James Gordon is nothing you should burden yourself with, my friend,” he says while checking his face in a gold patterned pocket mirror. “I have to admit, Lydia made an excellent job,” he adds, smiling fondly.

 

“Well, as a friend, I’m telling you, Gordon will be nothing but trouble should he get out of the hospital.” Victor shots back. 

 

“As if he ever is anything else,” he mutters irritatedly in response and checks his phone again for news on the insufferable policeman. “Tell me, Victor. As a proven expert on torture, what happens, if you warm up a man suffering from hypothermia in scalding water?” 

 

Victor’s smile grows wide in response. “You have someone in mind you want to put through this? It’s downright devilish. There’s a chance the customer’s heart stops but if he pulls through, you’re sure to be inflicting some exquisite pain,” he adds, eyes glistening with anticipation. “Besides, freezing is terrible in itself. It feels like being stabbed with billions of little pins at once and adding heat to that is like burning alive or getting cooked like a lobster. Unlike with a lobster, you can drag it out if your victim doesn’t die prematurely.”

 

“Even if the person in question has a particularly high pain threshold?” 

 

The master in the art of torture beams. “I wouldn’t worry about any threshold in that case. You know, the worst pain can be inflicted with the simplest methods.” 

 

Oswald only nods in return and keeps staring out of the window, knuckles turning white around the handle of his cane. “So who’s the unlucky one?” Victor presses curiously. 

 

“No one in particular,” he replies, voice drifting off. “I just wanted to know.” 

 

“That’s what happened to your detective then?”

 

“He’s not  _ my  _ detective,” the kingpin scoffs derisively. 

 

After a moment of hesitation, he decides to carry on. The soothing cocoon of his own car gives him just the right amount of confidence. Besides, he need to get this burden off of his chest before the panic attacks drive him spare. 

 

“You earlier wanted to know what happened.” He pauses, taps the cane against the window and wonders if he really wants to do this. Wearing his heart on his sleeve has done him nothing good in the past.  

 

“Gordon was given the choice to either kill me or get tortured.” His voice trails off, unsure what he wants to reveal to his subordinate. 

 

“Well, if he chose torture, he most certainly is  _ yours _ .” Victor points out wisely, startling Oswald from his musings in the process. He looks up then, searches his hitman’s expression for signs of mockery, yet only finds forthrightness. Clenching his jaw, he considers his next words but it takes too long. The hitman speaks again, before Oswald has the chance. 

 

“You know, it had always been clear to see that there’s a connection between you and Gordon. Some sort of deeper relationship.” 

 

Quirking an eyebrow, he gives Oswald a look that might be sad, or worse, pitiful. “The man will always be a hypocrite. He has set out to clean Gotham from crime and you are the king of the underworld. So, despite how helpful he turned out to be during your time in captivity, don’t let yourself be fooled, Penguin. Be honest. Do we have anything to worry about?”

 

“Yes.” Oswald finally admits with a heavy sigh. “I confessed a murder to him during our stay.” Victor’s face doesn’t give away any emotion. He probably thinks how perfect the opportunity was to get rid of that inconvenience.  

 

“He told me he loves me,” he then adds with a lopsided grin, giving the explanation for the unspoken question lingering between them.

 

Sucking in a breath, the killer works his jaw in search for words. “Did these events happen in exact that order?” He finally wants to know. What he really wants to know is, if the confession will turn out to be a problem. 

 

“More or less simultaneously,” Oswald admits quietly. “Yet I don’t think he’ll let it slide,” he adds.

 

“Why so?” 

 

“It’s a long story,” he says, worrying his lip. Slumping back in his seat, Oswald’s thoughts wander back to James once again. He knows he shouldn’t protect him, shouldn’t pay for excellent doctors to nurse him back to life. Not when he has given him that kind of ammunition that is.

 

But old habits die hard, they say. The kingpin has always had a crush on the detective, right from the start when he had refused to kill him at the docks. This crush though, it had  mostly been a physical attraction, merely more than lust at this time.

 

Back at the time, Oswald had imagined in the stillness of his own bedroom what James would look like bare, how his well toned muscles would flex with each movement. He had dreamt about kissing that angular jaw and being wrapped in these strong arms. In the darkness, he had wondered how Jim’s body would feel like atop of him. 

 

After his break up with Ed, he had returned to these old fantasies, had taken refuge in them because they couldn’t hurt him in their absurdity. It had been akin to loving an inaccessible movie star. And now, his imagination had been given new fodder during their captivity, for the crime lord knows now what the detective looks like. 

 

After almost freezing Jim to death, William had warmed him up in scalding water and thrown him back into the cell. He had been stripped down to his underwear, skin red like fire, slightly burnt and humiliated to the core under the prying eyes of their captors.

 

In that moment, Oswald’s fantasies had been forced into the harsh light of a twisted, evil reality. And oh! James had been perfect. Despite being bruised and battered he turned out to be the stubborn, beautiful, unrelenting man Oswald had put on a pedestal all those years ago. 

 

It was also then he remembered why he had developed this unhealthy admiration in the first place. This James Gordon had been lying on the concrete, almost naked, desperately trying to cool down his violated skin, eyes filled with pure horror and yet he wouldn’t cave in. The detective could have stopped all of this, could have ended his torment by merely pressing a button. 

 

His James Gordon wasn’t to be moved by anyone. This man would not bend to the rules of Gotham, Oswald Cobblepot or the devil himself. 

 

Despite his breathing being ragged and unsteady, one hand pressed to a certainly racing heart, James had stared at the gangster with piercing, unreadable eyes. It had been the look of a man who would never give in. 

 

But like an itch you scratch against better knowledge, Oswald had pushed James even further. He needed to know, why the man who had gladly sent him to Arkham and thrown the keys away, would go through such pain.

 

“Serve and protect.” Jim had rasped out simply in response, unwilling to say anything more. 

 

William had returned with knives and pliers and the same question on his lips. Of course James hasn’t answered him either. Hasn’t made a single sound except for his aborted, miserable puffs of breath. At some point though, the screaming started. It roared through the cells, this animalistic sound. There had been nothing remotely human about this pained cries reverberating through the dark halls until that voice was entirely abused and gone. Those screams and the promise of the pain to end if the detective only killed Oswald Cobblepot, had been the only tunes the gangster had been hearing for hours.

 

He had been so sure the detective would break. Anyone going through so much pain would cave at one point. Oswald only sat there and waited for his end, prayed it would be quick and not even remotely as excruciatingly as the torment he was witnessing. He would rant and rage, talk to the walls, to their captors, without ever getting any answer besides James’ screams. 

 

And then James finally broke. But not the way Oswald would have expected. He finally gave William the answer to the question why he would rather endure the pain than kill a gangster. 

 

“Because he must live! Because he’s worth more than all of us!” 

 

For a few moments his voice had been steady, certain and loud enough to echo through the entire facility. Oswald had been shocked. He would have expected any explanation but this one. He had been certain Jim was only saving him to prove a point to himself, out of some misguided sense of duty. He would have never thought the reason would be Jim regarding him as something worth protecting, as something precious.

 

Victor places a soothing hand on his arm, pulls Oswald’s mind back to the here and now. “I understand why you want to protect him,” the hitman tells him earnestly. “But there’s more. There’s something you’re still not telling. He might love you, but he’s Jim Gordon. And should he take you to jail, who will care for Martin? The boy needs a father. Would you jeopardize his future for the detective? He owed you enough. You could let him die and call it even.”

 

The hitman’s words are like a bucket of ice-water. Swallowing thickly, he wonders how he’d cope with that scenario. Would he still erase the man’s life, if he’d truly tried separating him from his boy again?

 

Noting the conflict on the kingpin’s face, Victor asks, “Which murder did you confess? It’s not like there had been only one.” 

 

“Doesn’t matter, Victor,” he replies weakly.

 

“Sure does. You don’t want to kill Gordon. You don’t want to leave Martin. But before we start worrying, we might want to find out if there’s more evidence than just the word of a cop who’s been put through hell and might have made up your confession in a delirium.” The assassin grins proudly and waits for his boss to reply. 

 

When the limousine stops, Oswald is propelled forwards. The momentum helps him to make up his mind, though. “Victor,” he declares. “I need you to search Jim’s appartement. And Bullock’s too. I want you to find every note on Fidel Aguilar and burn it.”

 

“And who’s that Fidel?”

 

“A mistake,” Oswald admits smiling sadly. “A dishwasher. And I had been foolish enough to confess murdering him.” 

 

With shaking hands, the crime lord gets out of his car. He has murdered so many faceless people over the course of time, has never given the lives he has taken much thought until his past came back to haunt him. 

 

Maybe he should have known that his truly innocent victims, the ones who had only been in the wrong place at the wrong time, would one day rise from their graves to get back at him. Ed once told him that ghost’s weren’t real. But Ed had been wrong. The last few days had been proof enough for that.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim reveals his emotions for Oswald.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy about every comment I receive on this story. Please, tell me how you feel about this chapter. It's your feedback that keeps me going. As always, I hope you won't be disappointed.

Oswald would never say it out loud but sending Victor away on his mission to retrieve any possible evidence connecting him with Porter, Morgan and most importantly, Aguilar, unsettles him. He isn’t fit to walk into this meeting alone, with only his usual bodyguards as back-up. They don’t know him, won’t be able to hold him back should he truly slip and lose control. Dammit, for once, he needs an ally at his side. Since Edward, he had had nobody to rely on, no one to confide in. Zsasz at least doesn’t outright lie to him in an attempt to please the King of Gotham and he’d feel better with the assassin nearby.

 

Still, it’s more important to act quickly. James could be back from the dead any minute and then it would be too late. Where the GCPD is concerned, being held captive along with Gordon makes him a traumatized victim. Yet, should the detective really have found some tangible evidence linking him to Aguilar and should Gordon wake up again, it would be enough to lock him up for murder.  

 

Checking his phone again, he hopes and dreads finally receiving the liberating message. His heart skips a beat as he slides his finger over the black display. Of course, there’s nothing. If he’s being true to himself, Oswald knows it’s rather unlikely Jim will pull through. Not after what Porter did to him with the power cables, not after how Morgan finished him with the baseball bat. But Oswald Cobblepot isn’t an honest man, not even to himself.

 

Sucking in a deep breath, he nods Victor tersely goodbye and instructs his driver to take him to the Gotham Imperial.

 

Once they have arrived, the kingpin is feeling somewhat sober again. The muscles in his leg clench painfully once he’s getting out of the limo but it’s alright. The agony pushes through his alcohol and drug-clouded brain, helps him thinking straight and he’ll need his wits around Gotham’s other mobsters. 

 

Surprisingly, his fears were uncalled for. The meeting goes smoothly enough. Oswald listens to endless praise on how the profit is constantly increasing due to his outstanding leadership qualities and how Gotham prospers under his reign. To his infinite relief, he only has to nod, smile and exchange words of gratitude. The event, as it turned out, was nothing more than a social call, a cocktail party featuring Gotham’s criminal elite. 

 

Soon enough Oswald deems it safe enough to stand up, excuses himself to get back to the safety of his mansion, more painkillers, and enough alcohol to finally allow himself the luxury of passing out and catching some well-needed sleep. 

 

The cramp in his leg comes unbidden but not unexpected. He’s got enough experience to draw on to grit his teeth and push through the pain without screaming. Yet, he trips and has to grip the edge of a nearby table in order to regain his footing.

 

One of the Mercado-family’s underlings is stupid enough to snort derisively. “Cripple,” he scoffs and the boy must either be a moron or downright suicidal cause the word is spoken loud enough for anyone around to hear.

 

The guests gasp, readying themselves for the bloodshed that is about to follow. It’s unwritten law you mustn’t insult the Penguin. Especially, if you are some disposable, nameless underling to one of the families. At once, the entire room seems to be frozen in shock. Only Don Mercado makes a strangled noise, works his jaw in distress, but being too terrified in the face of the Penguin, he doesn’t say anything.

 

Oswald’s mouth curls into a ghoulish grin. Secretly, he’s more than pleased with that progress of events. That stupid boy gives him the perfect excuse to let go of his frustrations.  Oh, how soothing it will be to gut that moron like a deer, to cut him open from neck to navel like a trout, to watch him bleed all over the floor. 

 

Gordon and his concept of morality be damned, the Penguin needs a fish, now!

 

Already pulling out his blade, Oswald limps closer, positively beaming at the man. Yes, this boy will just do, he thinks, looking him appreciatively up and down. The kid is trembling from head to toe, all color drained from his face. He’s a nobody, worthless, nameless and Gotham will have forgotten he ever existed by dawn. 

 

Just like Gotham has forgotten about Morgan, Porter, and Aguilar, a traitorous voice whispers mischievously in the kingpin’s head. Shushing his conscience angrily, Oswald determinedly steps closer. His smile splits further as he pulls the blade from his cane and the boy gulps. None of the other criminals would even dream of stopping him, least of all Mercado who’s holding his breath in hopes the Penguin’s wrath won’t be directed at him. 

 

“My dear friend, I assume I must have misheard,” Oswald starts politely, his blade caressing the boy’s throat almost lovingly. “For I could swear you just called me a cripple.” He pauses. Playing with his prey, he arches an eyebrow. “Yet a fine boy as yourself, with manners, class, wouldn’t dream of referring to a man as a cripple, right?” He’s now positively beaming, conveying a false sense of security that has the others taking three steps back and slowly searching for possible exits. 

 

From the corner of his eye, he sees the young man’s boss moving, too. “You’ll stay here, Mercado!” the kingpin yells furiously, dropping his facade. The others naturally take that as permission to flee the scenery and now only Oswald, his bodyguards, Mercado, and the boy remained. 

 

“I, I, I wasn’t going anywhere, Mr Penguin, Sir,” Mercado stammers out and Oswald snorts. It’s just pitiful how a full grown man shrinks away to nothing in front of him. 

 

“Of course not,” Oswald retorts cheerfully, already back to his well-mannered self. “My, my, my,” he starts. “I would have trusted you to chose your staff more carefully, Don Mercado.” 

 

“Please, Penguin - feel free to take revenge upon that brat however you wish to. Or if you prefer, I’ll take care of him…” The man’s voice breaks off and Oswald rolls his eyes. He hasn’t even done anything yet but they are both already on the verge of tears. It’s a glorious spectacle after the last week. Here, he’s back in charge. He’s the one inflicting fear and dread, in control of the situation and Oswald Cobblepot is positively delighted, he’s high on the feeling. 

 

Limping closer, he inspects the boy before him. He’s young, probably just a teenager, not too tall but brawny. Despite his physical advantages, he’s shivering violently. Shaking his head, the kingpin stares him directly in the eye. And something gives the gangster pause. 

 

Those eyes are blue, similar in shape and form to James’ and filled with pure dread. Lowering his blade, he inspects him more closely. 

 

Oswald has seen a similar expression in his detective’s eyes when hearing Morgan’s footsteps approaching again after admitting Oswald would be worth saving. Unlike that pitiful excuse of a human being, James had gritted his teeth and soldiered through his fear. Where this boy is practically pissing his pants, James had taken three steady breaths and tried to calm his racing heart. 

 

Morgan and Porter had come together the next time. They didn’t drag the still struggling man to another room but made sure Oswald would not only hear but watch them, too. 

 

Porter would be holding Gordon’s chest in a death grip, even if the man wasn’t strong enough to put up a real fight anymore. His voice had already been hoarse from screaming at this point. 

 

William had taken his sweet time, had dragged it out, enjoyed it. With sadistic glee, he would pull out the detective’s fingernail’s, inch by agonizing inch. He had told tales about his son’s childhood while doing so, had explained how the boy had once lost a nail during a football-match and how his hand would hurt for weeks later on. If a worthless murderer was really worth all that pain, he would ask again and again. His questions had a different effect, though. James Gordon would only react with more of his typical stubbornness. 

 

Oswald had seen James wounded and beaten before, but until that day (or night, it was impossible to tell) he didn’t hear him whimper so desperately or seen the man crying. Yet even then, he didn’t beg them to stop, didn’t reach for the device that would end his torment. Even at that moment, James Gordon wouldn’t act against his convictions. 

 

But this boy! Oswald hasn’t even touched him -  yet, he’s already lying on the ground, crying desperately for his mother, offering to bring the Penguin information on Mercado, his brother, his entire family if he’d just let him live. Oswald Cobblepot is thoroughly disgusted. 

 

This boy isn’t worth the effort, isn’t worth besmirching his blade with his blood and most of all, betraying James Gordon’s trust in him. 

 

When all the torture wouldn’t have the desired effect, William maliciously declared the next round to be much worse. He promised Porter and Gordon would be reenacting a scene from his boy’s favorite movie. Then, they had finally been given a much-needed break. 

 

The detective had been lying on the ground, cradling his abused hand against his stomach, their cell silent, except for his unsteady breathing. 

 

“And here I always thought I’d die by your hand,” James rasped out, turning his head towards Oswald, forcing out a crooked smile for whatever reason. What the man could smile about was beyond the mobster. 

 

“I would have cut your throat, quick and painless,” the Penguin replied with his usual arrogance that would shield him from the horror and Jim started laughing hysterically. 

 

“I don’t know how much longer I can hold on,” Jim admitted apologetically, causing Oswald to snort. He had witnessed enough to know, the detective had to break at one point. It was already impressive he had endured this much. 

 

The kingpin himself wasn’t sure he would have gone so far, despite what his interests might be. Not if there was a way out, constantly shining bright like a beacon. Maybe he would have endured so much pain for Ed, he muses. He definitely would have for his mother. But for just anyone? Someone who doesn’t mean a thing to him? And James Gordon certainly does not care for him.

 

The man left him to being tortured for weeks in Arkham - twice. The man had betrayed him, used him whenever it seemed beneficial to him or this city. He had tossed him from his throne more times than the Penguin can count, has even brought Sofia Falcone back to Gotham. Not once had he accepted his offer on friendship. Oswald Cobblepot was disposable to James Gordon, just another criminal to fill a jail with. 

 

And therefore it didn’t make sense. But a lot of things didn’t make sense with Gordon. He was also the man who would have let him have his revenge, the one who had served him Galavan on a silver plate. And he would forever be the man to save his life on the docks. The man who kept quiet about him being still alive when it would have been so easy to admit he didn’t kill him. 

 

James Gordon’s actions hardly make sense, ever.

 

“Don’t worry yourself, old friend,” Oswald said, acid dripping from his tongue. “You let me down before, let me rot in Arkham. Death isn’t that bad in comparison.” 

 

It’s stupid to taunt the detective when he’s literally holding his life in his palms. Yet, he couldn’t stop himself, not when this could be his last opportunity to get some answers out of the insufferable man. 

 

Jim had the decency to flinch at the mention of Arkham. Of course, he didn’t reply and  Oswald wasn’t pleased, would push on. “Are you riding so high on your moral horse you’d let yourself being tortured, yet would refuse to kill for your own sake?” he asked, long suppressed anger flaring, surging through his veins like poison. 

 

“You have murdered before, James. What’s different now? You’re practically soaked in blood, just like the rest of us and you keep constantly acting as if you’d be better. Despite what you wish to believe, you’re not a good man, James Gordon. So stop acting like a martyr and save your sorry self!” 

 

Oswald was panting heavily after his speech, surprised at his own words, at his own stupidity. Did he just hang a death sentence over himself? Why would he do that? How could he? Filled with dread, he waited for James to pick up on his offer, to reach for the device that would end their time in captivity and this torment. Is he really so shaken by listening to this man constantly screaming in agony? 

 

“Gotham needs you,” was the stoic answer to his rant and Oswald snapped. 

 

“You left me to being tortured!” he yelled. “You dragged Sofia Falcone to Gotham in order to drag me to the ground and now Gotham _needs_ _me_? What’s wrong with you, Gordon? What are you trying to prove?” By now he was shaking, practically beating the walls and if not for the bars separating them, he would have finished off the detective with his bare hands. 

 

“And you came back stronger than ever,” Jim replied, still unfazed. “More cunning, less brutal, yet more effective than ever.” 

 

“That’s not an answer!” he snapped, taken aback by Jim finally, finally admitting what had been clear to see for so long already. 

 

“Oswald,” he said earnestly. “I couldn’t leave the city to a criminal. At least that’s what I believed for so long. I came to realize this city needs a villain, and this villain is you. Happy now?” Jim was struggling, tethering on the edge of consciousness at this point. He’d soon pass out but Oswald wasn’t happy, wasn't pleased. Even knowing he should let Jim rest for a while, he couldn’t.

 

“Why would a man like you let me go to Arkham?!” he demanded to know, fists clenched at his sides. 

 

Oswald didn’t know where that sudden strength came from, but rolling over, Jim reached through the bars and grabbed him forcefully. “Because that’s where you belong!” Jim spat, voice filled with hatred. 

 

“Because you’re a murderer, Oswald. That’s why.” They were nose to nose now. Oswald could smell cold sweat, blood, and urine on Jim. The sour scent nearly causing him to gag. Despite, he didn’t dare to move. He saw the veins pulsing on Jim’s neck as bloodied, trembling fingers clasped around his lapels. Jim had a hard time breathing with his broken nose, filth from their captor’s shoes covering his face and his broken ribs. And yet his grip was unyielding, unforgiving. 

 

“You murdered a teenager for his shoes, Cobblepot,” he growled. “Fidel Aguilar. He was 18 years old, working on minimum wage in Maroni’s restaurant as a dishwasher. Do you remember applying there, Oswald?” Jim carried on, pulling him impossibly closer in the process. “You had no shoes for the job? Do you remember?” Jim whispered insistently. “Someone sliced the kid’s throat, dropped him an alley like he was nothing, like garbage, and the next day you started working for Maroni. I talked to the staff. The day after his death, you had the shoes.” 

 

Jim then let go of him, practically shoved him back. Oswald tipped backwards, hurting his bad leg in the process while Jim simply rolled on his back. “And you wonder why I hate you so much,” he murmured in exhaustion.

 

“I,” Oswald started in response, voice trembling like the one of a minuscule umbrella-boy.

 

“Don’t you dare telling me lies, now!” Jim roared. “Not now! Not when I must save your life, not when I have to cling to my love for you. Not now!” 

 

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of his lungs. Oswald froze. He wasn't able to choke out a single word at that moment. Thankfully, he didn’t have to. The footsteps announcing Morgan and Porter were already approaching. 

 

Feeling his anger slowly dissipate, the kingpin slides his blade back into the sheath. This boy before him who shares his eye-color with Jim Gordon is nothing like the unrelenting detective. He’s just one of these weak creatures James would wish to save and take home to their mothers. Jim would expect him to have mercy, to act better than he used to. After what Jim did for him, he owes him. Owes him to be braver, stronger - to be the king he claims to be. 

 

Drawing a shuddering breath, he releases the boy. He’s not worth his time, not worth betraying Jim. Oswald isn’t sure what would be worth betraying the detective, anyway.

 

The phone in his pocket vibrates, pulling him back to reality. 

 

_ James Gordon is awake _ , he reads. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald runs into Harvey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so incredibly grateful for each and every comment I'm receiving! They keep me going and mean so much to me! I hope you won't be disappointed :/

Maybe Oswald shouldn’t act on his first impulse and drive to the hospital the second he receives the text. Maybe, he should rather wait for Victor to finish his job, should rather go home in case this whole detective Gordon ordeal comes crashing down, burying him alive in the process again.

 

Yet, whenever it comes to Jim Gordon, the kingpin doesn’t think straight. Not even now, when the stakes are much higher than ever, when Martin’s future is on the line, too. Jim Gordon is his vice, always has been, always will be. The unpredictable detective had been his downfall in the past before. And now, after their time in confinement, his judgment has apparently just been clouded further.

 

So there he is, Oswald Cobblepot, the King of Gotham, the little umbrella boy. The man who had been saved and condemned over and over again by the same cop he can’t get away from. He’s walking down the halls of the hospital deliberately slowly, head held high, shoulders as straight as his deformed spine would allow. Oswald wants to run. Wants to run towards Jim and never see him again all the same. He wishes the man had died, he wishes he would live forever.

 

“Penguin!”

 

The gangster freezes and stops still in his tracks. His time has ultimately run out, he thinks, turning. Expression carefully blank, he looks Harvey Bullock scrutinizingly up and down. The man seems to be a tad bit better off than last time, a little less sleep-deprived, mostly sober and he must have shaved not too long ago. He’s back to being a detective, not anymore a pitiful mess. It unsettles the gangster.

 

“I was on my way to you,” the cop says, not even remotely surprised to see the criminal here. “I just visited Jim,” he adds unnecessarily.

 

Inwardly, the kingpin panics. That’s it, he thinks, the game is over. Jim must have already told him everything about their time in confinement, about the boy he killed. He can already picture Bullock taking out the handcuffs while citing his rights. Not as if he doesn’t know the lines by heart already. It won’t take much to connect him with the disappearance of Morgan and Porter as well, he muses, heart hammering painfully in his chest.

 

“Detective Gordon is a fortunate man to have such a loyal friend,” he forces out, hands clasped tightly around his cane. Oswald has no intention to go down easily. If Bullock wants to arrest him, he will have to make it past his blade and his goons who had been watching Jim.

 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Bullock retorts, tilting his head, still not making any effort to arrest him.

 

Licking his lips nervously, he asks, “And how is the honorable detective? I hope he’s recovering well?”

 

The detective pauses, multiple emotions crossing his face. Oswald can make out consternation, sadness, rage and something he can’t quite put his finger on. “The doctors you paid were certainly helping,” he states at last. “But well? No, he isn’t well.”

 

The kingpin widens his stance, shifting his weight mostly on his good leg and the cane. Of course, Bullock must have figured out at one point Gotham’s finest physicians wouldn’t put such great effort into saving only a simple cop with only mediocre health insurance. After all, the detective isn’t as thickheaded as one would believe.

 

“I don’t care why you helped him,” Harvey carries on. “I have my theories, though.”

 

Oswald frowns, curious to know what the other man might be referring to. However, he allows himself to relax slightly, permits his pent-up shoulders to slump imperceptibly. “I’m delighted to hear Jim Gordon is being excellently cared for. I can assure you, though, that wasn’t my doing,” he replies hastily, voice perhaps a tad bit strained.

 

“You’re a great liar, Oswald,” Bullock scoffs. “But not when it comes to Jim. You’re currently lying like a ten-year-old girl caught with her hands in the cookie jar.” He laughs drily. “Anyway, this time I really don’t care what your business with him might be. Not when it’s actually helping him.” Taking a deep breath, the older man holds out his hand.

 

“So, thank you,” he mutters quietly. “Jim is my only family left. I _do_ appreciate what you’re doing. Despite what your true intentions might be.”

 

“I don’t have any intentions,” Oswald sputters, unintentionally admitting to paying for Jim’s medical care. Cursing himself, he ignores the still outstretched hand, just tightens his grip around the cane. He isn’t trying to be impolite deliberately, he just has to hold on to something for balance. In his current state, he doesn’t trust his bad leg to suddenly give out.

 

“Ha!” Harvey exclaims, positively delighted, yet restraining himself from saying anything more. Instead, he starts playing nervously with the hideous heat he’s holding in his hands. Working his jaw, he looks away from Cobblepot, gathering the strength to say what he originally came for.

 

“I wanted to warn you,” he fills in at last and Oswald’s eyes widen. That isn’t exactly what he had been expecting. Although, after Bullock not arresting him, he didn't know what to expect anyway.

 

“How very considerate,” he replies, aiming for his usual arrogance and gritting his teeth. The darned leg starts pulsing uncomfortably, again. “Though I can’t fathom what you might want to warn me about.”

 

“Want to sit down?” Harvey asks, giving his leg a worried glance. At another time, Oswald would have questioned his worries.  

 

“No,” the gangster snaps back, more angrily than intended.

 

“Very well. I’ll make it short then,” Harvey nods determinedly. “Jim wasn’t very talkative but he told me who tortured him: Robert William Morgan and Henry Porter.”

 

The kingpin should have expected that hearing those names spoken out loud would make him want to vomit. Yet, he doesn’t expect the impact they truly have on him, the rage coursing through him, the utter amount of disgust. It takes all of his willpower not to pull a nasty grimace but to keep up the clueless impression.

 

If he could, he would murder them all over again, have Strange revive them so he can torture them for weeks and months. He killed them way too quickly, didn’t let them pay properly for what they did to his James. Not as if they ever could make up for what they did.

 

Jim Gordon didn’t deserve to suffer the way he did. Not by their hands, at least. The detective wholeheartedly had tried finding their kids. Oswald doesn’t doubt he would have moved heaven and hell to bring them back their children. In front of these men, Jim had just been Gotham’s innocent hero, the city’s golden boy.

 

Oswald is certain it ’s _only_ him James keeps betraying.

 

If anybody has a right to claim James Gordon’s life, it is Oswald Cobblepot - no one else.

 

“And why would you warn me about these men?” Oswald asks innocently, finally working up the strength to smile politely, yet uninterestedly.

 

“They both vanished,” Harvey replies, unfazed and the gangster gives him a tight nod as well as puzzled look. If he keeps his thoughts about James mostly at bay, he can pull through this conversation, can keep pretending he doesn’t already know what happened. Focusing his attention on Harvey, he notes how distressed the other man indeed is.

 

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”

 

Taking a swig from his hipflask and ignoring the reply, he carries on. “William was my friend,” Harvey confesses quietly. “Maybe that’s the reason I didn’t notice.”

 

“Notice what?” Oswald requests, impatiently.

 

“Those men believed you killed their sons, Oswald.” Before the gangster can come up with a retort, the detective holds up a hand, placatingly. “Neither Jim nor I thought you had something to do with it. But they were obsessed.”

 

Voice breaking off, Harvey takes another swig, staring intently at the floor. “I didn’t notice. Besides Jim, I didn’t have many friends. So I told Robert things I shouldn’t have. Like how Jim saved you at the docks. I never thought he would really go after him. But he did. And he might come after you next.” Swallowing a lump in his throat, Harvey hesitantly looks at the kingpin.

 

“This was my fault,” he whispers, leaving the kingpin at a loss for words. He knows he should probably say something, press for more information, yet he’s tongue-tied. Never before has he seen Bullock so defeated, so meek. Certainly not with him.

 

“You might want to, you know, stoke up on security in case they are after you now.” Closing his eyes, Bullock releases a shuddering breath. “I’ve seen Jim….his upper thighs, Lord.” Voice breaking off, the other man bites back a sob and Oswald nods.

 

He knows what he’s referring to. Has seen it - the reenactment of Gregory’s favorite movie. It had been the worst moment of them all. When coming back this time, they had announced it as the grand finale, Jim’s final test and his last chance to sacrifice the gangster instead.

 

It was Porter who had bound him to the chair. “Did you like the movie Taken?” he asked. Jim had only mutely shaken his head in response. “Don’t know it,” he muttered but Oswald did - and he felt sick. Back then, he had known exactly which scene they wanted to replay.

 

“No,” Oswald yelped. “Please don’t,” he had begged on Jim’s behalf. Oswald had started pleading and offering money, power. Had sworn for the thousandth time he hadn't laid a hand on these kids. They ignored him, looked right through him - just like before.

 

Morgan had explained the scene to Jim, vividly. How they would stab a metal rod through his upper thigh and then charge it with electricity. If he knew how much that hurts, they asked. If he could imagine? How anyone would even consider enduring such pain for such a worthless creature as the Penguin?

 

Jim had only stared at Oswald, face entirely blank. He wouldn’t talk, not anymore, just kept his unreadable eyes trained at the kingpin.

 

“I’m sorry,” Jim muttered when they stabbed the metal through his leg. Oswald thought he would apologize for giving up.

 

He didn’t. He apologized for everything and anything that happened between the two of them. Oswald only realized that when Morgan asked him if he wanted the device now and Jim declined again.

 

He wouldn’t have blamed James for giving up. Getting down on his knees, the King of Gotham begged them to stop. He couldn’t see them through the veil of his own tears. But he heard them, heard Jim making sounds that were barely human at this point.

 

And he remembered. Remembered why he had developed his crush on the detective, why he had not killed him despite everything the man had ever done to him. James Gordon would never depart from the path he had set for himself. Ultimately, Oswald would always respect him for that. Would love him, too.

 

Once, he wanted him to make him his friend, his own. Now, he realized, he already owned him.

 

They turned the power on once again and Jim twisted in agony. Oswald was unable to tell how much they had already spent down there, in that warehouse. He just needed it to stop. Something inside him snapped and he screamed. Wailing at the top of his lungs, he begged Jim to give up, to finally push that damn button.

 

“You were right,” he sobbed. “I killed that kid, Fidel. Took those shoes and started working for Maroni. You were right to send me to Arkham. You can give up now. Please, Jim. Just stop.” He would have admitted killing the other kids, too if it would have made a difference.

 

Yet, he didn’t want to give their captors that satisfaction, not then at least. Later, when they laid bare before him, when it was all over, he confessed those murders too, quite gleefully.

 

Naturally, Jim wouldn’t listen. For once, he kept his end of the bargain. When it ultimately stopped, he looked at Oswald for a final time, eyes filled with pure, unadulterated love, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

  


“Nobody deserves what has been done to him. Not even you. So, be careful. Just in case,” Harvey warns the Penguin intently. No, they won’t come back, the King of Gotham thinks, keeping that knowledge dutifully to himself.

 

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” he replies, voice as steady as it needs to be. “But I am very capable of handling myself,” he adds with conviction.

 

Harvey snorts. “Jim was too. And look what happened.”

 

“Yes.” Oswald for once agrees with the detective. Closing his eyes, he turns to leave. It is time to visit an old friend. And maybe, just maybe there was hope he wouldn’t turn on him this time.

  
  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Oswald finally meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so grateful about all your comments on this story that encourage me to keep writing. Finally, Jim and Oswald are being given a quiet moment and are making a step towards healing. I am still terrified you'll be disappointed. Please tell me how you liked this chapter. And thank you all for reading!

Jim is sleeping again when Oswald finally pushes the door to his room open. After everything he’s been through and the painkillers in his system that ain’t a surprise but a disappointment nevertheless. With a snap of his fingers, he orders two of his goons to guard the place and to make sure the pair of them won’t be disturbed.

It’s probably neither the place nor the time to have a conversation with the severely injured detective but Oswald needs some answers, right now. Usually, he’s a patient man. His plans always involve the grander scheme of things. If necessary, he’s able to wait for months and years, but _now_ he doesn’t find it in him to remain passive. Besides, there aren’t many opportunities to talk to Jim in quiet anyways. In his current state, he won’t be able to storm off or evade his questions. And given how high he’s presumably on painkillers, there’s a good chance his answers will be honest for once.  

Sitting down, Oswald observes his friend’s sleeping form. Jim looks peaceful under the covers. Despite his face being battered black and blue and his hands being wrapped in bandages, he’s the calmest Oswald has ever seen him. The steady rise and fall of his chest is soothing, a reminder of him being alive. What would Gotham be without that unimaginable man? This city would for sure be a more stable place and a lot more boring. Zsasz is right in wanting him dead. Jim is going to cross his plans in the future too, no matter how much he loves him. Yet the truth is, Oswald loves him too. Loves how he never backs down, how he’s never showing respect or fear, mercilessly following his chosen path.

Is Jim a friend now? The gangster isn’t sure. Given, he was willing to die for him but that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to betray him the moment he wakes and comes to his senses again. The detective has never been an ally of his. Made it quite sure in the past over and over again he doesn’t approve of the kingpin’s methods. He’s still the man who locked him up in Arkham without batting an eye, the man who used him and threw him away when his usefulness to him or Gotham had expired. The gangster isn’t sure what exactly had changed, what had driven him to go to such great lengths to make sure he’ll make it out of this warehouse alive.

Closing his eyes, he leans back. The Jim from this godforsaken warehouse had respected him, had realized Oswald isn’t an enemy of the city they both love. Would he treat him differently now? Or would they both slip back into their roles of a criminal and a cop, chasing each other until one of them dies by the other’s hand?

Making up his mind, the gangster gets up. Placing a gentle hand on the detective’s face he smooths a strand of hair from his forehead. Thumb caressing where the bat hit his temple, he sucks in a shuddering breath. Another person he deeply cares for has nearly been ripped from him for good - again.

Whether Jim Gordon lives or dies isn’t up to someone like Morgan or Porter to decide. They don’t share history with the man, they haven’t shaped this city with him. After everything that happened, only Oswald has the prerogative to kill him.

“Wake up, Jim,” he urges softly, pale fingers caressing his jaw. “We need to talk, old friend.” The detective stirs under his touch but doesn’t wake. “Please,” the kingpin adds desperately and finally his words have the desired effect.

The detective’s eyes snap open and Oswald regrets his decision to disturb him immediately. His heart rate accelerates rapidly as his gaze darts hazily around the room. The monitor beside his bed starts beeping furiously when Jim stares at the criminal’s thin form, his breathing becoming ragged and unsteady. His formerly calm face contorts, bringing out the bruises more prominently. The swelling around his nose seems to intensify when Jim gasps for air, nearly ripping out his IV when he starts thrashing around in a desperate attempt to get back on his feet.

“Jim,” Oswald calls, horrified about his reaction. “Calm down!” he orders, grabbing one wrist forcefully, placing the other one mindlessly on his thigh.

The detective yelps in pain, going limp immediately. He’s staring at him with huge panicked eyes, practically begging for mercy. The criminal pulls his hands away instantly.

“I’m sorry!” he chokes out, shocked and disgusted with himself for hurting Jim even more. “I didn’t mean to. We’re at the hospital,” he adds, holding up his hands placatingly. “See? Just you and I,” he says looking pointedly around the room.

Ever so slowly, Jim’s breathing turns back to normal and the beeping sound subsides. Flopping back against the pillows, he nods weakly.

“Harvey just left,” Oswald fills in, stepping closer. “Do you remember him visiting you?”

Another nod is the only answer he gets. Rubbing a hand across his face, the detective winces. 

“You probably shouldn’t touch your face too much,” the gangster informs, aiming for a light, joking tone and failing miserably. Now that he’s back to his senses, the damage done to him can’t be denied anymore. It’s not just the bruises and the broken bones: it’s also the hollow, defeated look on his face. Jim Gordon is entirely meek now that the need to fight has left his body.

At that moment, he only wants to bolt from the room, give the man the rest he needs. It’s the wrong thing to put him through these memories now, to make him talk. Oswald hates himself for it yet he can’t leave now. Not when Jim could grab the nearest phone, call Harvey back and do him in. He’s starting to chew his fingernails, a nervous habit he never could get rid off.

“Why are you here?” Jim rasps out at last. His voice is unlike him, thin and abused, barely audible. 

“Can’t I visit a dear, old friend?” he asks in return, trying to compose himself. Jim doesn’t look convinced in the slightest. Swallowing heavily, the gangster places his hands around his cane. “Mind if I sit?” he asks. When the detective doesn’t react, he figures he’s being given permission anyway.

“I need to know what you remember,” he tells Jim, taking stock of his various injuries and barely restraining himself from reliving in vivid detail how he received each of them.

Jim makes a strangled sound at the question. Leaning back, he closes his eyes. Oswald is sure he won’t answer, will pretend none of that ever happened and go back to sleep. Not that he would allow that. Not today. Nostrils flaring, the gangster leans forward, unsure how to get the stubborn man to cooperate for once but intent on forcing a reply out of him. He backs down in shame as he realizes what he wants to do and resumes to chew his nails instead. 

“Everything up until I got hit with the bat,” Jim murmurs faintly, taking Oswald by surprise. Moving his hands restlessly over the blanket, he gives a helpless impression. Struggling for words, Jim locks eyes with the gangster. 

His gaze is too intense, too much like it had been back in the warehouse shortly before they turned on the power. The rules had been very simple then: if he managed to get through ten rounds, he would be allowed to die and Oswald to go.

Tears pricking at his eyes, the criminal remembers each bit of information Jim had revealed in those last hours of their stay. Morgan would not stop interrogating him and the detective had broken down completely. He had admitted how much he respected the criminal, had acknowledged the Pax Penguina had been good for Gotham, had confessed bringing him down and down again had been a mistake. Jim had given him every credit the Penguin had ever strived for and even more. Had admitted how impressed he had been when he had taken down Falcone and Maroni and how wrong he had been in destabilizing the city by throwing him from his throne time and time again.

Oswald didn’t doubt Jim’s sincerity then. But he doubts Jim could really stop being a detective and stop chasing after him now that he’s not going to die. So he has to be sure, has to press for answers.

Placing a hand on a bit of skin above his wrists that doesn’t look too damaged, he touches him gently. “Why didn’t you tell Harvey I was there with you?”

“He didn’t know when he came. I figured you wanted to keep it that way,” he simply says and Oswald doesn’t know how to retort. The Jim Gordon he knows would do anything to solve a crime.

Heaving a sigh, Jim starts tugging at his blanket. His attempts are futile with his bandaged hands but nevertheless, he keeps going.

“What are you doing?” the criminal inquires curiously.

“I need to see it,” Jim replies, working with even more determination.

“That would be unwise. Besides, it will be bandaged,” Oswald replies. Catching his flailing hands, he places them carefully back atop the blanket. “And you shouldn’t. It would look worse than it is,” he adds sternly. 

Not making a sound, Jim nods. Minutes pass by in companionable silence, only disturbed by the sounds of their breathing. It’s comfortable, spending time with Jim like this. Stretching his legs, the kingpin leans back, intent on falling asleep and spending the night beside him in the hospital. After days of inner turmoil, he’s finally found some peace and the exhaustion threatens to overwhelm him.

“How am I still alive?” The detective’s voice penetrates the stillness, pulling Oswald back from the brink of sleep. 

“They let me go after hitting you with the bat. I came back to get you. You were still breathing and I took you to the hospital.” 

“And Morgan and Porter?”

“Were already gone,” the kingpin lies easily. He isn’t sure Jim believes him but what should he tell him? The truth is, they did let him go, did keep the end of their bargain. And they are indeed gone now, so there’s that. It’s not like he can outright admit to his detective he skinned them alive with his sharpest blade for daring to take him hostage and laying their filthy hands on Jim.

“Why didn’t you let me die?” he asks in a small voice and Oswald stills. His first impulse is to tell him because he would have never let that happen. Because he loves him too. Yet it’s too soon. He can’t get the words out, so he doesn’t.

“I know how to repay a favor,” he retorts instead. “And I acknowledge when being given one.”

“So I don’t owe you anymore?” Jim tries to keep the hurt out of his voice but fails.

“I suppose we are even,” the gangster confirms, getting up. It’s too much. He can’t deal with this anymore, can’t handle an open and vulnerable Jim. He isn’t ready to trust him entirely, isn’t ready to hand over his heart entirely. Not yet. Not like this.

“I’m sorry, Oswald,” he whispers at last. “I’m sorry for Arkham,” he adds mutely.

The gangster is taken aback, forgets how to breathe for a moment. Pulling back his hand from the door handle, he turns around.

“After Fidel’s death, I hated you so much and for so long.” Jim continues, voice trembling. “I was convinced you killed that kid. And I wanted, no needed you, to pay for it. But when you confessed murdering him in that warehouse, I knew you had nothing to do with it. You never confessed a murder you actually committed,” Jim huffs with a slight chuckle. 

Sobering up, he looks Oswald straight in the eye. “Why do you keep saving me? I’m in your way any given chance. Why?” Voice breaking off, he clenches his fists so tightly blood starts dripping through the bandages. 

And that is the final straw. Jim looking at him like that, entirely heart-broken, desperate, completely at a loss forces the kingpin to give in. Finally, Jim is offering anything Oswald ever wanted. He can see it with crystal clarity: the prospect of friendship, love, a true bond.

They would be invincible together. Together they would lead Gotham into a brighter future and they would never be alone again. Jim doesn’t mind him being a crime boss. He minds him being needlessly cruel, he minds him killing the weak and the innocent. And Oswald has long since moved past taking such measures.

Crossing the room, he’s at Jim’s side in a heartbeat.

And then their lips are crashing together. This kiss isn’t tender. There are years of longing and resentment between them, respect, adoration, spite, and love. It’s like being given his first club all over again, a feeling of being finally granted anything he ever longed for just intensified a hundredfold.

The tongue invading his mouth is almost as angry as his own and just as needy. He whines into the kiss, pulling Jim closer. With that, the mood changes. It not a battle anymore but mutual, unconditional surrender.

Oswald isn’t sure he’ll ever let go again doesn’t even notice he’s crying as he wraps his arms around the man he wanted for years. Eventually, he has to though. Jim tries covering it but he notes the small pained cry nonetheless. 

They would be fine, he tells himself when lying down beside him on the bed, one arm draped lightly over his chest. Zsasz would make sure there is no evidence connecting him with Aguilar and then they would start a life together.

“I meant it when I said I love you,” Jim mumbles before falling asleep. Oswald only presses closer. “I love you too,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

  
  
  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly fluff. Jim and Oswald start living together and despite the Crime Lord's doubts, everything goes well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depicting our couple bonding was the hardest thing to write for some reason. Now I'm actually really terrified I'll disappoint you. *closes eyes and hits the post button* Let me know what you think, please.

It’s madness, complete and utter madness. After Jim waking up, everything happens too fast, everything is rushed but it feels too good, too right so Oswald doesn’t question it. He just goes along with the flow, taking everything he can get for as long as he can get it. 

The mobster spends the next couple of days at the hospital, sitting on the edge of Jim’s bed, playing cards, reading magazines, fussing over how his new tailor can’t seem to get the fit of his suit perfectly right and Jim chuckling amusedly. 

“I disagree,” he says, playing his hand. “The suit looks amazing.” 

Oswald huffs. “You only say that because you have no sense of style.”

“Or maybe the fit isn’t right because you slept in it,” Jim retorts, unfazed while collecting his chips. “What really surprises me is how you can suck so badly at poker.”

“Maybe I just let you win?” the kingpin suggests innocently which causes the detective to burst into laughter, clutching his broken ribs. 

With the hostility between them gone, it’s astonishingly easy to get along. Jim, with his stoic demeanor, takes Oswald’s mood swings as they come. He can deal equally well with his tantrums as with his depressive episodes. It’s not like they touch the sensitive topics outright, not with words at least. They don’t talk about Morgan and Porter, Arkham, Blackgate, Edward, Lee or his mother. Of course, it’s evasion but it’s not really necessary either. They know each other for so long now, have been the cause of each other’s pain so often, they just catch on. A little gesture, a single word is enough and they both understand. 

Harvey isn’t exactly thrilled to see the Penguin hanging around at the hospital every time he visits. He clearly dreads some nefarious motives behind their newfound friendship and yet he’s still glad for his presence and his goons in case Morgan decides to show up again. Oswald almost pities him for being constantly worried about Jim’s well-being - but not enough to stupidly confessing a murder.

After a few more days, the doctors claim Jim to be fit enough to leave the hospital, despite him still being in tremendous pain. He can’t walk, half of his ribs are broken and he practically passes out every other hour from the painkillers but he’s good to go - allegedly.

Oswald nearly stabs the idiot telling him Jim would be released in the eye with a ball pen.

“And how is he supposed to climb down the stairs to his flat?” he yells furiously on his detective’s behalf.

Obviously, these are questions the medical staff at the hospital doesn’t care about in the slightest. Of course, the crime lord could pay for an extended stay. If he doesn’t want to take his good friend in if his housing situation isn’t adequate for a man with such injuries? 

And that’s the story how Jim ends up in the Van Dahl manor. Harvey isn’t thrilled about the idea either but he lives on the second floor with no elevator and there’s no chance Jim would be able to climb stairs for at least three more weeks. 

Looking back, Jim moving in with him is just natural progress. It feels right and like almost any personal decision Oswald has ever made, it’s absolutely wrong.

Of course, Jim protests, but only weakly. He doesn’t want to be a burden and how would that even look like, a detective living with a mobster?

“It’s the least weirdest shit ever to grace Gotham,” Harvey says despite all his doubts and just like that, it’s settled. Because where else should Jim go?

If he had outright declined, Oswald would have paid for a nurse or found another way around but somehow, the detective isn’t opposed to the idea. Obviously, Jim is as sure and straightforward about his actions concerning his private life as he is about his job. 

When Harvey asks him why Jim and the Penguin are such great pals all of a sudden he answers honestly. Tells him there had always been more between them, he just needed time to wrap his head around it. Oswald had been sure Jim would keep his declaration of love a secret for as long as possible. 

But no, he’s the last honest man in Gotham.

“Well, he fits your collection of psychopaths,” Harvey comments drily, shaking his head in exasperation but letting it go for the moment. 

Zsasz is even less enthusiastic about it, to put it mildly. He tells his boss outright that he lost his mind for letting a cop stay at the heart of their business. The kingpin then makes it quite clear that he can go looking for another job if he ever talks to him like that again. Besides, Zsasz has a job to do. If he already found out if Jim knows about any evidence on him murdering the Fidel kid? 

And of course, Zsasz is right. Even tied to a wheelchair Jim wrecks havoc in less than three days. He’s more than just a slightly competent detective and gets his underlings talking about Oswald’s affairs in no time. With the help of his phone and Harvey, he sabotages a highly lucrative drug deal already before breakfast. 

The mob boss storms down the stairs, not even bothering about his bad leg for once. 

“Is this your idea of gratitude?” he hisses venomously, fury practically skyrocketing when finding Jim in the kitchen, sipping orange juice through a straw, seemingly without a care in the world and having an idle chat with Olga. 

“Will the GCPD burst through my doors any minute and drag me to Arkham?!” he screeches hysterically, feeling betrayed all over again. Did Jim only tell him he loves him to get him locked up again more easily?

The detective only looks at him with that infuriatingly stoic expression of his.

“Calm down, Oswald. The GCPD has no idea you were involved in that deal,” he says quietly. “But your partner sold you goods of a minor quality that could have very well caused death to anyone using it. I couldn’t let that happen,” he adds, flashing Olga a grateful smile when she continues cutting his pancakes into tiny pieces so he can eat them more easily. “If you don’t believe me, call your moles at the GCPD. They will confirm it.”

“And you let him!” Oswald yells, now turning towards Olga. “Betrayers! I’m surrounded by betrayers,” he whines, dropping dramatically into the next chair.

“If I wanted to betray you, I would have told the GCPD about your arms deal, the illegal casino you’re running and the two other drug deals yesterday too.”

“You know about these?” the kingpin exclaims, appalled.

“You invited me into your home, Oswald. What did you expect?” Jim answers honestly. “I meant it when I said that Gotham needs a criminal like you. And trust me, I’m trying very hard to accept that. But I can’t have you killing people with shitty drugs.” Jim shrugs, awkwardly trying to eat from his pancakes with his still bandaged hands. 

And then Oswald finally realizes something important. Jim isn’t stoic. Not at all. He’s completely stiff, practically frozen from tension. It must have been hard for him to learn about all these things and only preventing this one drug deal. Swallowing heavily, he leaves the detective alone, makes a couple of phone calls and soon has his confirmation: yes, the drugs were spiked and nobody using them would have survived. 

Only now he begins to wonder how a relationship with Jim could possibly work out. How many secrets would he have to keep from him? How many lies would he have to tell him in addition to the ones he already told? And how much would he figure out on his own? 

Bringing the detective into his home had been a decision made in the spur of the moment. He had only seen the opportunity of making him his own and hadn’t thought further. Rubbing his face, he wonders what he has brought himself into. 

As if sensing his inner turmoil, Jim comes after him. He’s struggling with a pair of crutches, intent on only using his wheelchair when it’s absolutely necessary. Already completely exhausted after the short way from the kitchen to his study, he looks equally defiant as vulnerable.

“Nothing I told you I said lightly,” Jim starts. “I know exactly what and who you are. And I would have never agreed to come with you if hadn’t been sure about this.”

“And what exactly is  _ this _ ,” Oswald demands to know, looking up from the desk that makes him look like a king even if he momentarily feels like a child hiding behind grandeur. 

“A relationship, what else?” Jim snaps back, completely sure of himself, face flushed from exertion. 

“Relationship,” the kingpin echoes, thrilled that Jim uses the word. Despite his declaration of love, he still doubts him. Doubts whatever it is they are trying to accomplish has any chance. 

“Look, I have no idea how this is going to work,” Jim admits, sliding gracelessly to the floor when finally deciding to give up on his futile attempts to stay upright. “I know what you are doing, probably better than anybody else in Gotham. And I’m willing to accept that. But no innocent casualties,” he adds sternly.

The Penguin considers his words. It’s not like he’s content about the outcome of this drug deal either. Dead customers are the worst after all. His approach would have been different, though. But what happened is just so much like Jim. He’s acting first and thinking later. And just assumes Oswald will be alright with his course of action. 

Given, what he’s offering is much more what he would have ever believed possible. He’s practically promising to turn a blind eye to his criminal empire unless the damage done would be too great for his liking. Everything has to work according to Jim’s crooked and tattered morals. It’s exactly that spirit that had him ending up in Arkham. 

“Did you even consider  _ not _ going behind my back?” Oswald demands to know and his surprised expression gives the answer away. The thought has never even crossed his mind. 

Jim opens and closes his mouth silently, breathing becoming slightly ragged. If from pain or some mental process he can’t tell. “I should have,” he admits at last. “I just did what was right.” 

The kingpin closes his eyes in frustration. His connection with Jim will for sure be the end to his criminal career. He should probably consider becoming a designer and running some exclusive nightclubs. Which would be drop dead boring in the long run. 

“Alright,” Jim declares after a moment of consideration. “We should probably establish some rules. Mostly for me,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “No more lies, no more jumping to conclusions, not going behind each other's backs. I can do that, scout’s honor,” he says, holding up two fingers for emphasis.

Oswald wants to call him out on all his failures in the past, on all the times he betrayed him but then Jim never promised him anything before so he doesn’t. Just accepts for now that Jim seems to be serious. He’s just sitting there on his floor, destroyed legs stretched out, back against the wall, hands swathed in bandages and completely at his mercy, trusting him entirely. Something inside Oswald breaks at the sight. Even further than before.

“You just cost me half a million,” Oswald huffs without heat. “People have died for less,” he adds, knowing full well he could never hurt him again. 

Jim only flashes him his most endearing smile in response. With a roll of his eyes, he goes back to the kitchen to fetch the wheelchair. It’s no easy task getting the heavy man back into with his bad leg but he would never trust anybody else to do it either, so there’s that. 

After that, the pair of them settles into a surprisingly easy routine. Jim is just  _ there _ . He's sleeping beside Oswald, one arm wrapped around his stomach. And for the first time in years, the mobster doesn’t wake in the middle of the night, doesn’t drink too much to ease the ever-present aching in his leg, mixing the booze with too many painkillers. He is content, stops pestering his staff with ludicrous outbursts. They would have breakfast together in the morning and in the evening, Jim would be lying on the couch, head settled in Oswald's lap while watching some stupid comedy or another tedious football game. 

The King of Gotham has never been happier, never been more at ease. 

It would not last. He is certain of it. Once it would be over, the pain would be suffocating. He isn’t sure the deep pits of hell he’s about to descend are worth these fleeting moments. He should end it. Should tell Jim starting that kind of relationship was nothing but a terrible mistake. This happiness would only heighten the agony once it would be gone. It’s not even a question if it’s going to end. Just when.

He doesn’t. He can’t end what they are having when Jim looks at him like he personally hung the moon, patting the sofa and asking if he wants to watch yet another movie with him. So he settles down, smiling tightly and kisses those pliant lips any time he wants.

After two more weeks, Oswald is being hit with the realization that nobody in Gotham knows him better than the gruff detective. He needs to leave Jim in order to attend to some business after Ed attacking his area at the harbor and injuring three of his associates. The incident spirals the mob boss into a sour mood that would set anyone else running or panicking. He’s pacing the room, swinging his cane with slightly too much force and muttering angrily how he’s going to end the Riddler once and for all. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t talk about killing people in front of a cop?” Jim recommends with a mischievous smile. They are having breakfast again and Jim still can’t properly use cutlery. Oswald watches him struggle for another split second before snatching the spoon from him shoving it into his mouth himself. He only meant to feed him but ends up acting too harshly. Naturally, Jim nearly chokes and that’s what brings Oswald back to himself. 

“I’m so sorry,” he sputters as Jim tries glaring sternly between his coughs.

“If you want to get rid of me, I’d prefer you wouldn’t finish me off with scrambled eggs,” he grumbles, visibly annoyed. The gangster tries to make it up by consolingly patting his back and promptly hitting a sore spot. 

Jim winces. “Sit down,” he commands. “And take a breath. You’re still getting too emotional about Ed and I won’t let you walk away like that.” 

Oswald obeys guiltily. After years being entangled inseparably in each other's affairs, it shouldn’t come as a surprise there’s hardly any dirty secret left Jim isn’t aware of. Turns out, he has been keeping tabs on him the entire time, guesses quite accurately what led to Oswald and Ed ending up as enemies. Thankfully, he's drawing the wrong conclusions. 

“I am sorry the two of you didn’t work out in the long run,” he starts and the gangster makes an incredulous noise. 

“No, hear me out. You worked well as a team and even I had to admit the city prospered under your reign. It all went to hell shortly after Isabella died.” Jim pauses to take a sip of water through his straw.

“You had her killed, right?” It's not even a question and he doesn't require an answer so he simply carries on. “But there was something off about her. She was too perfect, looked too much like her predecessor Kristen.”

“And your point is?” Oswald snaps, absolutely not liking the topic of their conversation. He feels uneasy, angry about himself for being careless with Jim and still feeling itchy wherever Ed is concerned. 

“My point is you probably killed her to protect Ed. And I shot Lee’s husband in the face to do the same. And afterward, she did practically everything to draw my attention and get her revenge. My point is, ignore him. Let him get over it on his own. Whenever you're practically climbing up the walls when hearing Ed’s name, he gets exactly what he wants: you suffering. And for Christ's sake, let go. He might not be able to live without you but that doesn't mean you can't move on.”

The observation is fairly accurate. Ed still gets to him, is still an open wound but Jim cutting straight to the point does wonders for him. All of a sudden, the tension leaves his body. Sure, he still has to clean up the mess he caused but still he realizes he doesn't have to get emotionally involved. There's no use reestablishing that failed relationships because he has Jim now and Jim understands him. 

No, he loves him. Oswald is not yet used to this fact. He doesn't need Ed anymore, has the man now he wanted for such a long time and his anger about the Riddler’s doing turns into a simple business matter. 

However he can't entirely confide in Jim, can he? There would always be things he must not know about, like his true, quite selfish motivations for murdering that woman. He’s about to try, about to spill the unfiltered truth about  _ anything _ , really. But something holds him back. 

He didn’t know he could possibly love his detective more, but here they are. And the truth would for sure erase that loving expression on his face, wouldn’t it? So he simply presses a soft kiss to his temple and leaves for the day. 

If Oswald would have known this had been their last perfect breakfast, he would have stayed longer. But then you never know exactly when you’re running out of borrowed time. 

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald makes a decision. There's a bit of smut but mostly angst. I hope you won't be disappointed. Somehow I dread I'll mess it up *closes eyes and hits post*

“What now, boss?” Zsasz asks casually chewing a gum. He gives the injured thugs a rather bored once over. The damage done by Ed is hardly worth mentioning. Oswald sighs in exasperation and turns to leave. He has already spent enough time in warehouses, and after organizing for his men to get patched up, and compensating for their inconveniences, there's nothing more to do. Except for one thing maybe. The Penguin is supposed to retaliate.

Only a month ago, the kingpin would have demanded Gotham to be turned upside down, whereas now, he only puts a bounty on the Riddler’s head. One that is high enough not to raise any suspicions but not high enough to lure people like Victor Zsasz out of their hideouts. In fact, Oswald is surprised how little he cares all of a sudden. His heart doesn’t clench at the mention of the other man’s name, well not so tightly, and the gangster finds himself rather mulling over what he would be wearing for his dinner with James than were the schizophreniac might possibly be hiding.

“I don't know whether to be relieved or worried,” Victor comments dryly, opening the limousine’s door for his boss.

“I'm not going to give Edward the satisfaction of obsessing over him again,” the mobster answers smoothly, sliding into the car with as much grace as his bad leg allows.

“No, you found yourself someone else to obsess over,” Victor points out, tone displeased. The hitman is sitting opposite his employer, long leather-clad legs comfortably stretched out, scrutinizing him intently. His jaw is clenched as he plays absent-mindedly with a knife. There’s no use denying the atmosphere has become a bit tense.

“If there’s anything you want to say, spill,” Oswald snaps after being stared at for about five minutes, starting to squirm in his seat.

“James Gordon is a threat to your empire,” Victor answers, not missing a beat. “Rumours will start spreading soon enough and the syndicate won’t tolerate this connection. Hooking up with Ed again would be less problematic, in all honesty.” The killer leans back then, obviously satisfied with himself.

Oswald feels his temper flare at his minion’s blunt words. He could have stabbed the impertinent man right then and there.

“And who is going to spread these rumors?” he asks, acid practically dripping from his tongue. “You?” The crime lord's eyes darken. If Victor is going to throw the man he loves to the wolves, he’ll rip him apart. Any physical disadvantages be damned. Now, that he finally found love, a love that is being reciprocated, he won’t allow it being ripped from him.

The killer seems to notice the kingpin’s irritation and holds up his hands, almost placatingly. “Please stay reasonable,” Victor argues. “How are you going to explain that the cop who arrested half of Gotham’s underworld now lives with you? Or is he going to play in your team now?” he adds, eyes sparkling curiously. 

“James is not corrupt,” Oswald growls angrily.

“Pity,” Victor whistles. “And the worse for you. Gordon will be after your allies again in no time. They’ll turn against you, Penguin. And they’ll hunt you down, hunt Martin down and your precious detective. Your empire will crumble once more and should you survive, you’ll be left with nothing. Is he worth it?” he asks, getting straight to the point.

Oswald’s first impulse is to lash out, to rip that bastard’s tongue out and smash his head against the window until it bursts. Yet, something gives him pause. Victor isn’t telling him anything he hasn’t already thought of. Of course, he’s well aware of anything the hitman has just pointed out. Jim is a risk, always has been. There’s no guarantee he’ll be looking the other way forever and the syndicate’s reaction won’t be approving, to put it mildly.

The man Oswald Cpbblepot created, the Penguin would have to die if he chooses Jim over his empire. All his efforts, his blood, the sacrifices made, would become futile. Is Jim really worth all that? Could he sacrifice everything he built in exchange for the fragile promise of love? For a pair of strong arms wrapped around his waist and soft lips pressed to his temple every morning? Is a smile that brightens an entire room worth giving up a kingdom?

It’s not the first time the crime-lord is forced to make such a decision. He threw his crown away before for Edward and fought tooth and claw to gain it back. Should James ever discover the truth, he’d be left with nothing all over again. And even if not, would Jim betray him anew? He’s still the man who left him to rot in Arkham and despite everything he did, Oswald still feels bitter about it. He shouldn’t, not after knowing his true motivations, but the feeling is still there, nagging at the back of his mind. 

In truth, Oswald wants everything. This world owes him. Owes him love, wealth, power, and respect. Being in a relationship with Jim would bereave him of his power. Without Jim, he’d still have Martin, his son. Having a kid and laying all his love on it should be enough, he muses. Even if the implications are suffocating, even if it practically rips his heart out, James Gordon would have got to go.

Oswald Cobblepot not going to make the same mistake twice. This time he’ll stay strong and do the right thing. Love is not worth paying any prize, he decides determinedly.

Heaving a sigh, Oswald finally nods. “You are a good friend, Victor,” he admits, voice slightly shaking. “James will leave us today,” he concludes, hands clenching around his umbrella so tightly the metal-rod breaks. The hitman thankfully remains silent. 

Back at the mansion, Olga is already preparing dinner. The mobster stares at the plates previously laid out, barely holding back his tears. It would be the last time he and Jim would be sharing a meal, the last time the other man’s loving gaze would be directed at him. All of a sudden, Oswald desperately wants to see his detective, needs to feel those lips again and his soothing strength.

He’ll just steal one last kiss before announcing his decision.

“Where’s James?” he rasps out, turning towards his housekeeper. 

“Swimming pool, basement,” Olga replies, batting Victor’s hands away from the half-cooked food with a wooden spoon. “Bad manners,” she admonishes in that stern voice of hers, laced with a heavy Russian accent.

“You don’t mind Gordon eating out of the pot,” Victor protests and Olga fixes him with a severe glare.

“Jim good person. Making Mr. Penguin happy, he allowed. You not,” she judges while chasing the killer out of her kitchen. The mobster’s lips curl into a sad smile. Olga never approves of his company. Given, most of the time it is indeed questionable. Jim is the only person besides himself she has ever shown affection for and once again he’s questioning if he made the right decision. The way down to the basement seems suddenly very long and uninviting, the elevator too far away.

That is until the mobster remembers something. Paling, he halts in his tracks. “Olga, did you say basement?” 

“Yes. Gave him key. Swimming good for muscles in leg.” 

Oswald practically starts running. He should have told Olga that Jim is not being allowed to go to the basement. There’s no way the nosy man won’t discover the secret room behind the sauna.

God, what is he going to think once he discovers the interrogation room? A room that looks so very much like the one in which they both had been held hostage. Panic surges through every single fiber of Oswald’s body as he hurries down, barely breathing in his frenzy. 

His hand’s are sweating as he pushes the massive doors leading to his indoor swimming pool open, leaving ugly stains on the pristine surface.

“Jim!” he calls out, sounding strangled. It shouldn’t matter anymore. Not after having decided he would break up. Yet, it does. Whom is he fooling? Jim’s opinion is the only that always mattered.

“Jim!” he shouts again, praying the man has maybe left the pool again and is back in his, no in their bedroom. A bedroom that will be Oswald’s alone again tonight. 

The mobster curses himself when rushing through the hall. The clicking of his cane sounds obnoxiously loud on the marble floor and the nixie-statues seem to watch him reproachfully as he makes his way to the other end of the pool. Maybe Jim is only in the sauna, maybe he hasn’t seen the door hidden in the wood.

Oswald steps into the cold sauna and sees the secret door being ajar. His chest constricts. 

“James?” he asks tentatively, still hoping his detective is anywhere but here. 

Stepping inside, he finds the man he wants to remove from his life. Jim is lying on the floor, curled in on himself, looking at the bars of an adjoining holding cell. His eyes are hollow and he doesn’t move when the criminal approaches.

“Jim?” he asks again, crouching down beside him. The detective startles when he touches his shoulder.

Somehow, Oswald had been expecting this kind of reaction to a room like this. After being released from the hospital, Jim had been acting as if nothing had happened. He had not once talked about it, had never explained how this situation had tipped him over the edge and forced him to confess his feelings for Oswald. He had just moved on, put it past him, and jumped right into a relationship with the mobster. 

Jim knows only two colors: black and white. And he never looks back, never thinks about his actions. After declaring his love, living together had just been the next logical step.

This room must throw him back, Oswald thinks, wrapping his arms around him, practically pulling him into his lap. Jim’s breathing is ragged and his gaze unsteady.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the criminal tells the detective clinging to him as if his life depended on it softly. Running a hand through the strands of his hair, he hums a soothing tune, an old lullaby his mother used to sing for him. He feels dampness on his shoulder then, Jim’s tears flowing freely.

Tightening his grip around Jim’s body, he starts rocking him like a child. Oswald knows what panic attacks are, has been through so many he lost count. The paralyzed body in his arms could be his own, was his own before. For Jim, the past has become the present. He’ll eventually snap out of it.

When Jim speaks again, it’s not what Oswald would have expected. Not at all.

“Is this what I’ve been doing to you?” he chokes out between sobs. “You’ve been locked up in Arkham for months. In a room like that. I did this to you.” Jim’s voice breaks off as he claims Oswald’s lips in a searing kiss.

It was different, Oswald wants to answer but doesn’t.

The criminal’s brain flatlines. There’s nothing on his mind but James, James, James. The heat of another body, the scent of another man, salty and heady and demanding. He’s being pulled closer, feeling a force that isn’t violating but protecting. The love is surrounding him, enshrouding him as Jim lures him down to the floor. 

Those lips, those hands tugging at his clothing are everything he ever wanted, all he ever needed. This weight atop him, grounding Oswald, is what he craved for his entire life.

He notes his suit being ripped from his body, notes lips tracing the outline of his clavicle bones, a tongue chasing his scars. His legs spread involuntarily when a firm hand grasps his cock. He has never done this before, has never gotten this close to another human being and never even wanted it. But right now, he would fight God himself if he tried stopping Jim. 

This is more than love. This is pure fulfillment and his entire body is burning up. Oswald just needs more. Needs this never to end and he starts pulling at Jim’s clothes too, rips that shirt practically off of him as his nails scratch frantically along his back.

When opening his eyes, he’s met with an expression, he’s never seen before. Words fail him as Jim gathers him in his arms. His touch is as gentle as if he’d be handling porcelain. The criminal flushes crimson when Jim picks him up, doesn’t question where this strength comes from, how it’s even possible for him to carry his weight back to the elevator. 

“I need you in our bed,” Jim whispers and the word “our” send shivers down Oswald's spine. 

He’s being pushed against a wall then, feels the buttons pressing into his back and thinks for one second how mad Olga is going to be for missing her dinner. He remembers Victor and everything he said about being together with Jim and chases the thoughts away.

The crime-lord simply decides this moment is worth a hundred kingdoms and two empires when Jim sucks a hickey into his skin. He’s then being picked up again. Nothing but desperate moans seem to escape his mouth as they stumble into the bedroom and Jim sheds the last remains of their clothing.

He should end this right now, should tell Jim about his decision. But he can’t, won’t.

“Forgive me,” Jim mumbles into his skin and Oswald gasps in response. He’s being reduced to a body simply reacting to touch, a writhing and moaning mess beneath his lover.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” the Penguin tries to say, throwing his head back, giving Jim better access. His words are being cut off with another kiss.

Later, when they lie entangled and Oswald feels nothing but bliss and a slight soreness, Jim turns to him. “What did you want to tell me?”

“I want you to meet Martin,” he lies, because lies have always been easier than the truth, snuggling closer. In his mind, he can already picture them. Jim teaching the little boy how to swim and playing tennis with him in the garden. Didn’t the detective always want to be a father? He could be a father to his son too, they could be happy, he believes, truly believes for a few moments. 

“I don’t know how I could have ever thought you killed a child. You might be a gangster but you had always principles,” Jim answers earnestly as he pulls the blanket over the criminal’s moist body.

The Penguin in him, the greedy part that wants and claims and desires, rejoices. The man, Oswald is more terrified than ever Jim might find out the truth.

“I couldn’t bear to lose you,” he mumbles, entwining their fingers. He feels Jim nod behind him.

“I know,” he sighs drowsily, and the kingpin thinks his cop must have fallen asleep.

“Oswald.” The voice behind him breaks off. “When you told Morgan and Porter you killed their sons when you tried saving me.”

“I remember,” the kingpin cuts him off, turning to face Jim

“Even after everything I did and all your reasons to doubt me,” he carries on and Oswald leans into his touch. There’s something Jim wants to say. He can see the unshed tears glistening in his eyes and he recognizes it’s his last opportunity to do the right thing.

“I always knew you’d never think I’d steal a grey van. What a hideous car!” he laughs hysterically, pressing his lips to Jim’s before he can tell him he never informed him about the car’s color or model. 

It’s the coward’s way out but he can’t tell Jim outright. After the time they shared, he’s unable to let him go. It’s the detective who has to figure out the truth, who has to leave because if he’d stay, Oswald would give up his kingdom in a heartbeat - that’s the only truth.

But that way, he’s being freed from making the decision and once again, it’s up to Jim what happens next. 

The detective frowns but doesn’t reply. His embrace tightens even further and for a second Oswald hopes and dreads he is going to drop the issue. Only this time, Jim neither surprises nor disappoints the Penguin, is gone already before morning comes. 

Knowing this love hasn’t been ripped from him but given up voluntarily isn’t as soothing as Oswald would have thought.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim has a present for the Penguin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this fic is almost over. If not for all your comments and encouragement I probably would have quit writing this story halfway. Let me know what you think!

Oswald isn’t surprised Jim throws himself back into work with reckless abandon, acting as if the last weeks had never happened. Or as if only certain events had happened.

Only two days after being back at the GCPD he arrests one of the kingpin’s most valuable underbosses in an illegal brothel, shutting it down in the process. He doesn’t stop there, though. Once he’s on a roll, he starts cleaning the city with the same ardent zeal he showed straight after arriving in Gotham. Soon Blackgate is filled to the brink with minor thugs while deal after deal gets ruined by the stubborn detective.

His actions never directly target the Penguin, though.

It seems James is after every gangster and mob boss except for their king. Sure, only a handful of deals can be traced back directly to the Iceberg Lounge yet Jim seems to evade those on purpose, seems to tiptoe around Oswald as much as humanly possible. He might merrily arrest criminals but even the underboss Jim caught has never met Oswald in person.

"He’s out of control," Victors remarks one evening and the King of Gotham nods absentmindedly.

Turning away from his hitman, Oswald takes a small, handwritten card out of breast pocket. He rereads it for the hundredth time, tracing the letters with the tip of his index finger. He knows each word by heart already and still, he has to see and feel the paper between his fingers.

"The syndicate will expect you to take appropriate measures," the bald-headed man carries on. Oswald can practically hear the victory in his voice and though he doesn’t say it out loud, he’s practically shouting "I told you so" from the rooftops.

Except, that isn’t the truth either. The little card between his fingers being proof enough.

Heaving a sigh, Oswald stretches his bad leg, bringing it closer to the fireplace, hoping the heat might do something against the ever-present pain.

"I am well aware," he replies, voice as hollow as he feels.

Closing his eyes, he tries keeping the panic about to overpower him at bay.

He can’t do that.

Oswald might have been reasonable, did the right thing and forced the detective to break up with him but he can’t do _that_ . He’ll never be able to put a bullet between those blue eyes. Maybe there is a way of ensuring Jim’s safety? Living in a world in which the impossible man doesn’t exist isn’t worth the effort. Even if Jim can never forgive him, even if he would never talk to him again he'd still be _there_. There would still be hope. There could be still favors.  

Oswald rubs his face wearily. He gave up his only chance of happiness for a never-ending game of push and pull. For playing chess with mob bosses and the GCPD, a pathetic display of power that is worth nothing in comparison.

If he could choose, he would have rather never experienced the last weeks. Happiness is like a drug. Once you tasted it, you can’t go back and like a junkie, you’d sacrifice your very last shred of dignity to regain it.

Hell, what is he even thinking! Jim would have never accepted his true nature, he chides himself. If he could, he would have never walked away in the first place.

That would be the painful truth if not for this goddamn card: "Stay away from dock 14 on the 12th" it reads. Nothing more, nothing less, written in James’ sloppy handwriting. The criminal turns the card around once more as if the gesture would force more words to magically appear. Is this little piece of paper a warning? A challenge? Does Jim honestly expect the Penguin to step aside and let him do his job?

Obviously, he does and Oswald indulges his whim. The delivery arriving at dock 14 is almost important enough the kingpin had truly considered monitoring everything himself. Jim guessed that correctly. Instead, he’s staying in tonight, waiting for another profitable deal to go south.

He could send more men, add more firepower and ensure everything goes as planned. He doesn’t.

So he waits, praying no bullet would hit his detective. Of course, Zsasz doesn’t understand why they are staying at the mansion. He’d be outraged knowing Oswald is currently losing five million on purpose and doesn’t even care.  

Given the choice again, Oswald would have kept lying. The weeks following their break up passed by in a pain filled haze. Each morning the mobster would wake up alone, eat alone, go to another tedious meeting and pile up money.

He’s nothing but a dragon hoarding treasures but all the gold can’t fill the hole in his soul. How could he not have realized sooner?

Now with Jim gone the pain is all engulfing. Each breath he takes constricts his chest instead of providing him with much-needed oxygen. His heart aches _physically_ , he actually can feel it clenching, as if a fist kept squeezing it constantly. In a rush of madness, he considered ripping it out. The ache in his leg is nothing in comparison.

"I have been observing Gordon," Victor shares suddenly, startling his boss. Oswald can’t bring himself to face his underling, continues watching the flames instead.

"He’s up to something," he elaborates. "Going after our allies is just his first step. Don’t fool yourself into believing he won’t take you down if given half the chance."

The crime lord only smiles weakly in response. Of course, Victor is has a point. Sparing him now could only mean James is preparing himself for the final blow.

"And you still haven’t found out _anything_ substantial," the Penguin replies at last, mouth twitching into an eerie smile. "Tell me, Victor, besides constantly warning me and letting me getting kidnapped what exactly did you recently accomplish? I’m sick of listening to you singing the same tune all over again."

"Oswald," Victor starts again and the mobster has heard enough. Rising from his seat, he spins around, throwing his half-empty glass at his subordinate.

"I won’t be told what to do!" he roars, crumpling the piece of paper in his clenched fist. "Get out now before I cut your loose tongue!"

The murderer doesn’t even flinch. He’s used to his bosses outbursts too much already and given his sour mood has reached new heights during the last weeks, throwing a glass is not even slightly impressive.

After James being gone, Oswald ripped apart the kitchen, burnt each book the detective has ever laid his hands on and stabbed one his bodyguard’s eyes out in a fit of rage. Afterward, Oswald had claimed to feel free again now that he didn’t need to be a better man for his detective.

Pinching the bridge of his nose he takes a deep breath. It doesn't help to remember Jim leaning against the bars of their shared prison, watching him with hooded eyes, drifting in and out of consciousness time and time again.

"I might have been a bit harsh on your licenses," he rasped out. "Wouldn't be in this situation with your system still in place." He gave Oswald a lopsided grin and let himself glide to the dirty floor. "I'm so tired," he mumbled and Oswald would have given anything to simply cover him with his coat at that moment. Jim had long since lost the ability to stay coherent for more than a few minutes. Every time he was, he shared a tidbit of information on what he admired Oswald for. It was only when screaming out his love the kingpin realized what for he did it. How he kept reminding himself why to endure the pain. "You really came far," he wheezed shortly before the darkness claimed him again.

Oswald came nowhere. 

Victor moves from his place on the sofa with a slight shrug and pours himself a glass of water. "Don’t get your feathers all ruffled, Mumble," he bristles. "I just wanted to inform you that your precious lawman has found _something_ and he might be visiting you soon enough. And I don’t think he’ll use his handcuffs the pleasurable way this time around," he adds giving the Penguin a pointed look.

Taking a sip from his glass he studies his employer intently. "Do I constantly have to remind you what’s on the line? It’s not my son who’s going to visit me at Blackgate." Shaking his head the killer leaves the room and Oswald to his thoughts. Victor can be right all he wants, his treacherous emotions would always remain his biggest weakness.

The night comes and goes then, going down exactly as Oswald expected it to. Ammunition worth millions has been confiscated by the police and the syndicate is getting impatient for him to act. He’ll have no choice but to give Zsasz the order he’s waiting for.

Once Jim is dead, his torment will be over too, the kingpin muses. With the other man gone, he’ll be almost entirely free. After all, he would have only been another leverage for his enemies to use on him. Love is nothing but a biochemical reaction of the brain he keeps telling himself, getting ready to cut the last string.

The opportunity comes earlier than expected. It’s not even six a.m. when Olga comes to his private bedroom, smiling encouragingly. "Nice man is back!" she beams. "Said he brought gift for you," she rattles on excitedly. "Go down, quick!"

Oswald’s heart literally stops in his chest. For an embarrassingly long amount of time, he only stares at his housekeeper, dumbfounded. He only moves when she starts putting out clothes for him, urging him to get downstairs. In the end, he chooses a suit made of pressed cashmere that accentuates his thin form perfectly. The color is a dark red, almost black. Only when the light falls on the fabric in a certain angle, the red becomes visible. It’s the perfect shade for hiding blood stains.

"James, old friend!" the crime lord exclaims, a false smile plastered all over his face when entering his living room. The man in question is seated on the sofa by the fireplace, the one he used to lie on with his head pillowed in Oswald’s lap.

Now he’s tense, sitting practically on the edge of the furniture and clutching a rectangular box to his chest. The criminal can’t figure out if he’s nervous about their meeting or because Zsasz has a weapon trained against the back of his head.

Maybe it’s a mixture of both. Fingers drumming against the top of the box he licks his lips, the tiny movement enough to distract the criminal. Their eyes lock but neither speaks. Oswald for being afraid he’d only manage an undignified squeak and Jim because he has never been a man of words.

The silence between them stretches until it practically has a physical body until the tension becomes too much to bear and any measure to break it would be gladly appreciated.

"I brought you a gift," Jim says, at last, squeezing the box between his hands so tightly his knuckles turn white. Oswald remarks the sweaty outline of his palms on the material.

He puts the box on the table then, obviously reluctant to let go of his possession while Victor keeps tracing each and every movement with his gun.

"He came alone," Victor informs him and Oswald nods.

"I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon again. You rather left in a rush," the mobster comments airily. If he can keep this light, if he can keep his emotions out, he might endure whatever Jim has to tell him. And the other day he would give the order to remove the man from his life forever.

The detective leans back, pressing against cold metal in the process. A flash of hurt crosses his features as he silently works his jaw.

"These are Fidel Aguilar’s shoes," Jim finally admits, pointing at the box. "And your shoes," he adds.

The Penguin crosses the room in a heartbeat. Before Jim has the chance to move, he’s sitting on his lap, pinning the other man down with all his weight, pressing a switchblade against his throat. Zsasz smirks. 

"I’m not going to Arkham again," Oswald whispers, caressing his skin with the knife. Enraptured, he observes his Adam’s apple bob against the blade. Jim doesn’t move, sits perfectly still as the kingpin agonizingly slowly breaks the skin.

"No," Jim agrees lowly, eyes trained at the mobster. 

"I could kill you right now," Oswald threatens, pressing closer against the policeman. Inhaling the familiar scent, his grip on the blade falters for a second.

"Maybe you should," he answers. "That is what you promised, isn’t it? A quick cut."

The grip around his knife tightens again and the first drop of blood stains Jim’s white collar.

"Nobody knows I found the shoes. Nobody knows I’m here," he whispers as the Penguin traces his face for any hints dishonesty, coming up with nothing.

"You’ve been wreaking havoc the last couple of weeks," he replies, adding pressure to Jim’s still sensitive thighs, forcing a small sigh out of the man beneath him. There’s that flash of pain again and Oswald can’t tell if it’s merely physical.

Jim nods against the blade, drawing more blood in the process. He’s trapped between a gun and a knife, unable to move. Is Jim really stupid enough to bring incriminating evidence to a criminal’s home?

"You killed them all, didn’t you? The Aguilar kid, Porter, Morgan and who knows how many more?" What should have been a question comes out as a statement.

"Did your stay at my home cloud your judgment?" Oswald snaps sarcastically and if he’s rocking up against his hips, it’s completely accidental.

"I had been right when locking you up in Arkham," Jim declares, pressing his palms into the cushions beside him. When he looks him straight in the eyes this time, it knocks the air out of the crime lord’s lungs.

Feeling the anger burning in his veins, the kingpin adds some pressure, forcing Jim to bare his throat entirely. He can feel the heat radiating off of him as he traces a rapidly beating vein with his blade. A small cut would be enough for him to bleed out within seconds. The thought sends shivers down his spine.

For a second Oswald just wants to laugh hysterically, the situation too reminiscent of the game "fuck, marry, kill". In truth, he wants all three. He’s rock hard, taut like a bow and the urge to kiss the man pinned beneath him is becoming unbearable. It would be so easy to just lean forward and capture those lips between his teeth. Just as easy as making a nice, final cut.

"Why did you bring that here?" Oswald demands to know, at last, panting heavily.

"You’re so clever, go figure it out," Jim snaps back, leaning forward. More blood trickles down his neck, small red dots now sprinkling his chest. They’re face to face now, practically breathing into each other’s mouth, creating an intimacy they didn’t even reach in their shared bed.

"I thought it was fairly obvious," he carries on, whispers, for Oswald’s ears to hear alone. "I needed to tell you I wouldn’t hold your crimes from days past against you. I nearly died for you. I needed to tell you that I want to live, too."

The King of Gotham’s brain flatlines. Jim can’t mean what he’s trying to say, this can’t possibly be true, just can’t. When opening his mouth he’s anything but proud of his undignified squeak. "With me?" he asks and Jim nods.

Forgetting Zsasz, forgetting the switchblade, forgetting anything but the confession drawn from Jim’s lips, his acceptance on top to his love, he surges forward, finally catching Jim’s lips and eliciting a pained hiss as he presses the knife too forcefully against his throat.

Strong fingers encircle his wrist then and he finally lets the blade fall to the ground. He’s being gently lifted from Jim’s lap but when he starts wrapping his arms around the detective, Jim stiffens. 

"Not like this," he mumbles, pressing a delicate kiss to Oswald’s temple. "You should take a closer look at your associates first," he adds with a little wink before vanishing through the door, leaving a very confused Penguin behind.

"I guess I have to take the trash out then," Victor says, picking up the box once Oswald has somewhat regained his composure.

"Yeah," he croaks out. "I need this gone from the face of the earth."

  
  
  
  
  



	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally, we come to an end. Jim and Oswald being united as they should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well....this had been my first fic for the Gotham fandom and I loved this journey. I loved all your feedback and I am so happy about each and every one who commented on this fic, left kudos or read it. I hope you will be content with this final chapter and I'm not ruining it for you. 
> 
> Thank you all! It was a pleasure to write this tale and please leave a final comment.

Some promises are easy to keep. The one Oswald has given Jim isn’t. The mobster is trying though. Rage pulsing beneath his pristine surface, he keeps smiling expressionlessly at his associates. 

Traitors. So many of them are traitors. Flipping out his blade and ridding Gotham of their presence would be so simple but he won’t. Taming his violence is a small price to pay for what is to gain and he can already feel the sweet taste of victory on the tip of his tongue. Victory tastes like sugared chestnuts, Oswald thinks. Like the desserts his mother used to make after a burdensome day at school. 

It’s a much better flavor than iron. Not long ago, his mouth had been filled with the taste of blood, his nose with the scent of it and his immaculate clothing had been soaked with it. 

For all their faults Porter and Morgan had been honest criminals. A trait Oswald deeply values. When the bat connected with Jim’s head for a final time, they kept their promise. The collar around his neck vanished and he had been free to go. Just like that. 

He remembers staring down at Jim, taking in his face for what he thought would be the final time and feeling nothing.

They say people look peaceful in death. Jim had looked anything but. Not with the agony etched into his features and expression full of certainty. No, his detective had not found serenity in death. 

Oswald still remembers the ice-cold feeling washing over him, a numbness settling into his joints he never knew. Time had stopped, had ceased to exist when being sure his friend, enemy, ally, opponent, and savior was gone for good. 

Jim had known him, understood and despised him and he had given his life for him. It should have been Oswald. After everything they had been through together, it should have been his prerogative to decide whether the detective should live or die. Porter and Morgan had no right to come between them. Not the way they did, not with such finality. 

Maybe they knew. Maybe they wanted it to end. Or maybe they really thought Oswald would forgive and forget. 

But the King of Gotham isn’t a man who knows forgiveness. Oh yes, he can be benevolent if convenient but only a handful of chosen ones would ever live to tell the tale of this merciful king. And Porter and Morgan were not among them.

They released him unceremoniously and afterward everything moved quite quickly. It took Zsasz only half an hour to get to the location, with some other men and his lord’s weapons. 

Oswald barely remembers the minutes or hours following Zsasz’s arrival. The assassin had later told him that the mobster would not accept any help. Once reunited with his cutlass he had known no compassion. The screams of Porter and Morgan would fill the warehouse then and the gangster had known exactly how to drag them out. 

Oswald could have gone on for days. Their agony had been his nourishment after days of starvation, their torment the water for his dehydrated body. 

Those men did not know what they had taken from him, what they had robbed him off. It was impossible for them to suffer enough. Jim had been  _ his _ . And nobody is to touch what is the King’s. 

Only when Zsasz touched his shoulder it would give him pause. “The cop is still breathing,” he said and the mobster’s heart stopped. 

Losing all interest in torturing Morgan some more, he cut his throat with a single, determined movement and started moving.  

Jim had miraculously regained his consciousness and Oswald forgot the world around him. For a few precious moments, they were truly together - not as enemies, not as two people working together, but as two men deeply respecting each other. 

“Promise me to watch over this city,” Jim rasped out, soaking the criminal's clothing with even more blood. Fingers slick but still laced together Oswald gently squeezed his hand. 

“There’s too much blood, too much violence,” the detective noted, meaning not only the crime lord but also their city. “You are a good man, Oswald,” he said. “There is so much goodness in you. Please don’t let it go to waste,” he pleaded before passing out. 

The mobster doesn’t remember screaming when being sure Jim was gone. He knows his men had been terrified of him, he remembers giving the order to take his detective to a hospital. 

And now, sitting at a table with Gotham’s most powerful criminals he wonders what it would mean to truly say farewell to his old friend. Yes, he could have cut his throat, he could give the order now but it would mean his death too.

Luckily, Jim has never been safer. 

When the voices demanding his head are being raised, his lips curl into a cruel smile. The individuals his detective has arrested have all been traitors one way or another. Their crimes would demand an immediate execution but Jim had other thoughts - as always. 

“Theft!” he screeches, throwing evidence about one of Jim’s prisoners on the table. “Fraud! Murder! Backstabbing basterds,” he hollers, flinging more papers onto the mahogany-table. “Each and every one of them went behind our backs and YOU!” he yells, raising one finger accusingly, “you want me to kill the man who went after our enemies and disposed of them without shedding a drop of blood?”

Oswald has to hide his smirk behind his fur-collar when his associates let out an incredulous gasp in perfect unison. All eyes in the room are trained at him. At that moment even a feather gliding to the floor would be audible. 

It’s Don Gennaro who breaks the silence first. “You’re not trying to tell us  _ Jim Gordon  _ now decided to be reasonable and work for us,” he scoffs. “The man is incorrigible.”

“Of course not,” Oswald declares merrily, moving to stand behind the other man. At a gesture, Victor shifts into position. Should Gennaro as much as blink impolitely, Zsasz would take him down. Bending down, he brings his lips to the other man’s ear. “Jim Gordon works for nobody, can’t be bought by nobody,” he whispers, yet in the silence, it’s still loud enough for everyone to hear. “But as it turned out, he’s extremely protective of  _ me. _ ”

He waits for the criminals to let the meaning of his words sink in, suppressing a giggle at the dumbfounded expression on some of the elderly men’s faces. 

Oswald needs them to know. It’s their best chance of protection if they comprehend without a single doubt on their minds what Jim means to him and how far he’s willing to go in order to protect him. And soon they will learn about his son too. 

“The very honorable detective James Gordon would never conspire with criminals. But for the sake of our beautiful city and for my very own sake he is willing to make some compromises. These compromises aren’t easy for a fine man like him and that more we ought to cherish them,” he speaks and the moment the words leave his mouth, he truly grasps their meaning. Jim indeed sacrificed a great part of his beloved morality, more than Oswald would have ever thought possible. He tried talking about it with the detective before the meeting yet he would evade the question. Always the stoic, he shrugged it off, declaring he would talk about it with him later. Oswald doubts he’ll get an honest answer.

He pauses, observing his fellow accomplices. Some faces still seem a bit confused or uncertain and Oswald doesn’t like that one bit. “This new association with the GCPD will ensure our business runs smoothly as long as we stick to certain rules. But this agreement is tied to my personal and James Gordon’s safety.”

Stepping back from the other Don he limps back to his throne and settles down. 

“So in other words, my dearest friends,” he clarifies, dropping the polite facade and turning towards the mobsters with all the authority the Penguin wields over Gotham. “Jim Gordon is sacrosanct. If anyone of you should even think about killing him, or his colleague Harvey Bullock, I’m going to burn this city to the ground. And you all know what my dear James is capable of. May Gotham prosper,” he finishes, raising his glass. 

Back in the black cocoon of his limousine, Oswald finally breaks down. For the first time, he truly feels like the King of Gotham. His association with Jim steadies the power structures in his beloved city so much he has truly become untouchable. Now he can bring Martin back home without fearing for his life. Finally, his life is complete. Even more so, he’s about to gain a family. 

“How was your meeting?” Jim asks when the crime lord arrives at his mansion and Oswald throws himself into his detective’s arms. He’s sobbing against Jim’s steady chest, melting into his touch as he simply enjoys how the other man’s fingers comb through his hair.

“Why now?” Oswald demands to know, not answering Jim’s question. “Why did you surrender?”

Jim stills entirely and for a dreadful second, the gangster thinks the whole thing will come crashing down after all. 

“Even when we were enemies, we always shared our love for this city,” he whispers, pulling the criminal into a tight embrace. “And when I got tortured, when I refused to let you die, I realized I love you just as much. I’m a selfish man at heart, Oswald. You should know that better than anyone,” the detective finishes with a warm chuckle. 

Taking a step back, Jim studies the Penguin intently. “I always wanted to keep that city safe and only days of torture made me realize I always came to you to accomplish that. Is that explanation enough for you?” he tells him with a lopsided grin. 

“But Fidel Aguilar,” Oswald can’t help blurting out, always greedy for more. Jim’s features contort in pain. 

“You and I can protect the innocent,” he states, trying to believe his own words. “In this city, it takes a criminal and a cop to do that. I betrayed that boy, you are right.” His voice breaks off and his shoulders slump again. 

“Sacrifice one, save hundreds?” Oswald supplies.

“And ourselves,” Jim completes, looking his criminal in the eye and finally, Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot is, if not content, accepting Jim’s explanation.

It took years, it took the city being destroyed and it took Jim getting tortured, but finally, they had found together. They would be united for Gotham and for each other. Oswald is ready to stop shedding blood and reigning along with his other half. And even if marred, Jim’s morals would bring peace to Gotham.

“I need you to meet my son,” Oswald says, pressing a soft kiss to Jim’s lips. “As far as I know, you always wanted to have a family.” 

Jim simply nods as he entwines their fingers. 


End file.
